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BRIAN FITZ-COUNT
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THE HOUSE OF WALDERNE.
A Tale of the Cloister and the Forest in the
Days of the Barons’ Wars.
BRIAN FITZ-COUNT
A STORY OF
iEallittgforii (totle anb Ipordusta JUbbco
BY THE REV.
A. D. CRAKE, B.A.
VICAR OF CHOLSEY, BERKS ; AND FELLOW OF THE ROYAL HISTORICAL SOCIETY ;
AUTHOR OF THE ‘ CHRONICLES OF A5SCENDUNE,’ ETC. ETC.
‘ Heii miserande puer, siqua fata aspera rumpas,
Tu Marcellus eris.’
Virgil : JZneid, vi. 882-3.
RIVINGTONS
WATERLOO PLAGE , LONDON
MDCCCLXXXVIII
Digitized by the Internet Archive
in 2016
https://archive.org/details/brianfitzcountstOOcrak
DEDICATED
WITH GREAT RESPECT
TO
JOHN KIRBY HEDGES, Esq., J.P.
OF
WALLINGFORD CASTLE
PREFACE
The author has accomplished a desire of many years in
writing a story of Wallingford Castle and Dorchester
Abbey. They are the two chief historical landmarks of a
country familiar to him in his boyhood, and now again
his home. The first was the most important stronghold
on the Thames during the calamitous civil war of King
Stephen’s days. The second was founded at the com-
mencement of the twelfth century, and was built with
the stones which came from the Bishop’s palace in Dor-
chester, abandoned when Bemigius in 1092 removed the
seat of the Bishopric to Lincoln.
The tale is all too true to mediaeval life in its darker
features. The reader has only to turn to the last pages of
the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle to justify the terrible description
of the dungeons of the Castle, and the sufferings inflicted
therein. Brian Fitz- Count was a real personage. The
writer has recorded his dark deeds, but has striven to
speak gently of him, especially of his tardy repentance ;
his faults were those of most Norman barons.
The critic may object that the plot of the story, so far
as the secret of Osric’s birth is concerned, is too soon
revealed — nay, is clear from the outset. It was the
writer’s intention, that the fact should be patent to the
attentive reader, although unknown at the time to the
vin
PREFACE
parties most concerned. Many an intricate story is more
interesting the second time of reading than the first, from
the fact that the reader, having the key, can better under-
stand the irony of fate in the tale, and the bearing of the
events upon the situation.
In painting the religious system of the day, he may
be thought by zealous Protestants too charitable to the
Church of our forefathers ; for he has always brought into
prominence the evangelical features which, amidst much
superstition, ever existed within her, and which in her
deepest corruption was still the salt which kept society
from utter ruin and degradation. But, as he has said
elsewhere, it is a far nobler thing to seek points of agree-
ment in controversy, and to make the best of things, than
to be gloating over “corruptions” or exaggerating the
faults of our Christian ancestors. At the same time the
author must not be supposed to sympathise with all the
opinions and sentiments which, in consistency with the
period, he puts into the mouth of theologians of the twelfth
century.
There has been no attempt to introduce archaisms in
language, save that the Domesday names of places are
sometimes given in place of the modern ones where it
seemed appropriate or interesting to use them. The
speakers spoke either in Anglo-Saxon or Norman-French :
the present diction is simply translation. The original
was quite as free from stiffness, so far as we can judge.
The roads, the river, the hills, all the details of the
scenery have been familiar to the writer since his youth,
and are therefore described from personal knowledge. The
Lazar-House at Byfield yet lingers in tradition. Driving
by the “ Pond ” one day years ago, the dreary sheet of
PREFACE
IX
water was pointed out as the spot where the lepers once
bathed; and the informant added that to that day the
natives shrank from bathing therein. A strange instance of
the long life of oral tradition — which is, however, paralleled
at Bensington, where the author in his youth found traditions
of the battle of the year 777 yet in existence, although
the fight does not find a place, or did not then, in the short
histories read in schools.
The author dedicates this book, with great respect, to the
present owner of the site and remains of Wallingford
Castle, John Kirby Hedges, Esq., who with great kindness
granted him free access to the Castle -grounds at all times
for the purposes of the story ; and whose valuable work,
The History of Wallingford , has supplied the topographical
details and the special history of the Castle. For the
history of Dorchester Abbey, he is especially indebted to
the notes of his lamented friend, the late vicar of Dorchester.
Christmas 1887.
A. D. C.
CONTENTS
CHAP- PAGE
I. The Lord of the Castle 1
II. The Chase 8
III. Who Struck the Stag ? 16
IY. In the Greenwood 24
V. Cwichelm’s Hlawe 32
YI. On the Downs 40
VII. Dorchester Abbey 48
VIII. The Baron and his Prisoners 56
IX. The Lepers 64
X. The New Novice 72
XI. Osric’s first Ride 79
XII. The Hermitage 87
XIII. Osric at Home 95
CONTENTS
xii
CHAP. PAGE
XIY. The Hermitage 104
XY. The Escape from Oxford Castle 117
XYI. After the Escape 131
XYII. Life at Wallingford Castle 141
XYIII. Brother Alphege 150
XIX. In the Lowest Depths 158
XX. Meinhold and his Pupils 170
XXL A Deathbed Disclosure 178
XXII. The Outlaws 189
XXIII. The Pestilence (at Byfield) 200
XXIV. The Opening of the Prison House 206
XXY. The Sanctuary 216
XXYI. Sweet Sister Death 226
XXVII. Frustrated 234
XXVIII. Father and Son 244
XXIX. In the Holy Land 257
CHAPTER I
THE LORD OF THE CASTLE
It was the evening of the 30th of September in the year
of grace 1139 ; the day had been bright and clear, but the
moon, arising, was rapidly overpowering the waning light
of the sun.
Brian Fitz-Count, Lord of Wallingford Castle by marriage
with the Lady Maude ( Matildis Domino, de Walingfort), the
widow of the doughty Baron Milo Crispin, who died in 1 107,
without issue — was pacing the ramparts of his castle, which
overlooked the Thames. Stern and stark was this medi-
aeval baron, and large were his possessions. He was the
son of Count Alain of Brittany 1 — a nephew of Hamelin de
Baladin, of Abergavenny Castle, from whom he inherited
large possessions in Wales : a nephew also of Brian, lord of
a manor in Cornwall, which he also inherited.
‘ ‘ Great his houses, lands, and castles,
Written in the Domesday Book.”
Furthermore, he was an especial favourite with Henry the
First, who commanded the Lady of Wallingford to marry
his minion — according to the law which placed such widows
at the disposal of the crown — he was present at the conse-
cration of the great abbey of Reading, where amongst the
co-signatories we read “ Signum Brientii filii comitis , de
Walingfort the seal of Brian Fitz-Count of Wallingford.
1 Anglo-Saxon Chronicle.
B
2
BRIAN F IT Z- COUNT
He walked the ramparts on this last evening of
September, and gazed upon his fair castle, or might have
done so had his mind been at rest, hut “ black care sat on
his back.”
Still we will gaze, unimpeded by that sable rider,
although we fear he is not dead yet.
The town of Wallingford had been utterly destroyed by
the Danes in 1006, as recorded in our former story of
Alfgar the Dane. It was soon afterwards rebuilt, and in
the time of Edward the Confessor, was in the hands of the
thane, and shire-reeve (sheriff) Wigod de Wallingford, a
cupbearer of the pious monarch, and one who shared all
that saintly king’s Norman proclivities. Hence it is not
wonderful that when William the Conqueror could not
cross the Thames at Southwark, owing to the opposition of
the brave men of London town, he led his army along the
southern bank of the great river to Wallingford, where he
was assured of sympathy, and possessed an English partisan.
Here Wigod received him in his hall — a passable structure
for those times — which subsequently formed a part of the
castle which the Norman king ordered to be built, and
which became one of the strongest fortresses in the
kingdom, and the key of the midlands.
The Conqueror was a guest of Wigod for several days,
and before he left he witnessed the marriage of the eldest
daughter of his host, the English maiden Aldith, to a
Norman favourite, Robert d’Oyley, whom he made Lord of
Oxford.
Now the grand-daughter of that Wigod, whom we will
not call traitor to his country — although some might deem
him so — in default of male issue, became the wife of Brian
Fitz-Count. The only son of Wigod, who might have
passed on the inheritance to a line of English lords — Tokig
of Wallingford- — died in defence of William the Conqueror 1
1 William’s first wound came from the hand from which a wound is most
bitter. Father and son met face to face in the battle ; the parricidal spear
of Kobert pierced the hand of his father, an arrow at the same moment
THE LORD OF THE CASTLE
3
at the battle of Archenbrai, waged between the father and
his son Robert Courthose.
To build the new castle,1 Robert d’Oyley, who succeeded
to the lordship on the death of Wigod, destroyed eight
houses, which furnished space for the enlargement, and
material for the builders. We are not told whether he
made compensation — it is doubtful.
The castle was built within the ancient walls in the
north-east quarter of the town, occupying a space of some
twenty or thirty acres, and its defence on the eastern side
was the Thames.
Within the precincts rose one of those vast mounds
thrown up by Ethelfleda, lady of the Mercians, and
daughter of the great Alfred, a century and a half earlier.
It formed the kernel of the new stronghold, and surmounted
by a lofty tower, commanded a wondrous view of the
country around, from a height of some two hundred feet.
On the north-east lay the long line of the Chiltems ; on
the south-west, the Berkshire downs stretching towards
Cwichelm’s Hlawe, and the White Horse Hill; between
the two lay the gorge of the Thames, and in the angle the
fertile alluvial plain, chiefly filled at that time by a vast
park or chase, or by forest or marsh land.
The Chilterns were covered with vast beech forests, the
Berkshire downs were more bare.
There were three bastions to the north and two on the
south ; within the inner dyke or moat on the east was the
struck the horse on which he rode, and the Conqueror lay for a moment on
the earth expecting death at the hands of his own son. A loyal Englishman
sped to the rescue — Tokig, the son of Wigod of Wallingford, sprang down
and offered his horse to the fallen king — at that moment the shot of a cross-
bow gave the gallant thane of Berkshire a mortal wound, and Tokig gave
up his life for his sovereign. — Freeman.
1 Leland writes — giving his own observations in the sixteenth century
(temp. Henry VIII.) : — “The castle joineth to the north gate of the town,
and hath three dykes, large and deep and well watered ; about each of the
two first dykes, as upon the crests of the ground, runneth an embattled
wall now sore in ruin ; all the goodly building with the tower and dungeon
be within the three dykes.” The dykes or moats were supplied with water
from the Moreton brook.
4
BRIAN FITZ- COUNT
“ glacis,” which sloped abruptly towards the river : the
main entrance, on the west, was approached by a series of
drawbridges, while beneath the tower a heavy portcullis
defended the gateway.
Upon the keep stood two sentinels, who from the summit
of their lofty tower scrutinised the roads and open country
all day long, until they were relieved by those who watched
by night. Beneath them lay the town with its moat, and
earthen rampart in compass a good mile and more, joining
the river at each extremity. Within the compass were
eleven parishes, “ well and sufficiently built,” with one
parish church in each of them, well constructed, and with
chaplains and clerks daily officiating, so that people had no
lack of spiritual provision.
Beyond, the roads stretched in all directions : the Lower
Icknield Street ran by woody Ewelme along the base of
the downs, towards distant Stokenchurch and Wycombe ;
while on the opposite side, it ran across the wild moor land
through Aston and Blewbery to the Berkshire downs,
where it joined the upper way again, and continued its
course for Devizes. Our readers will know this road well
by and by.
Another road led towards the hills, called “ Ye Kynge’s
Standynge,” where it ascended the downs, and joining the
upper Icknield Street, stretched across the slopes of Lowbury
Hill, the highest point on the eastern downs, where the
remains of a strong Roman tower formed a conspicuous
object at that date. Another road led directly to the
west, and to distant Ffaringdune, along the southern side
of the twin hills of Synodune.
Now we will cease from description and take up our story.
“ Our lord looks ill at ease,” said Malebouche, one of the
sentinels on the keep, to Bardulf, his companion.
“ As well he may on this day ! ”
“ Why on this day ? ”
“ Dost thou not know that he is childless ? ”
THE LORD OF THE CASTLE
5
“I suppose that is the case every day in the year.”
“ Ah, thou art fresh from fair Brittany, so I will tell
thee the tale, only breathe it not where our lord can hear
of my words, or I shall make acquaintance with his dog-
whip, if not with gyves and fetters. Well, it chanced that
thirteen years agone he burnt an old manor-house over on
the downs near Compton, inhabited by a family of English
churls who would not pay him tribute ; the greater part of
the household, unable to escape, perished in the flames, and
amongst them, the mother and eldest child. In a dire rage
and fury the father, who escaped, being absent from home,
plotted revenge. Our lord had a son then, a likely lad of
some three summers, and soon afterwards, on this very day,
the child was out with scanty attendance taking the air,
for who, thought they, would dare to injure the heir of the
mighty baron, when some marauders made a swoop from
the woods on the little party, slew them all and carried off
the child — at least the body was never found, while those
of the attendants lay all around, male and female.”
“ And did not they make due search ? ”
“Thou mayst take thy corporal oath of that. They
searched every thicket and fastness, but neither the child
nor any concerned in the outrage were ever found. They
hung two or three poor churls and vagrants on suspicion,
but what good could that do ; there was no proof, and the
wretches denied all knowledge.”
“Did not they try the ‘question,’ the 1 peine forte et
dure V ”
“ Indeed they did, but although one poor vagrant died
under it, he revealed nothing, because he had nothing to
reveal, I suppose.”
“ What ho ! warder ! dost thou see nought on the
roads?” cried a stern, loud voice which made both start.
“Nought, my lord.”
“ Keep a good look-out ; I expect guests.”
And Brian Fitz-Count resumed his walk below — to and
fro, communing with his own moody thoughts.
6
BRIAN FIT Z- COUNT
An hour had passed away, when the sentinel cried aloud —
“ A party of men approaches along the lower Ickleton
Way from the west.”
“ How many in number ?”
“ About twenty.”
“Where are they?”
“ They cross the moor and have just left the South
Moor Town.”
“ Canst thou make out their cognisance ?”
“ The light doth not serve.”
“ Order a troop of horse : I ride to meet them ; let the
banquet be prepared.”
In another quarter of an hour a little party dashed over
the lowered drawbridges and out on the western road ;
meanwhile the great hall was lighted, and the cooks
hurried on the feast.
In less than another hour the blast of trumpets
announced the return of the Lord of the Castle with his
guest. And Brian Fitz- Count rode proudly into his
stronghold : on his right hand rode a tall knight, whose
squires and attendants followed behind with the Walling-
ford men.
“Welcome, Sir Milo of Gloucester, to my castle,”
exclaimed the Lord of Wallingford, as he clasped the hand
of his visitor beneath the entrance tower.
“ By’r ladye, a fine stronghold this of yours ; that
tower on the keep might rival in height the far-famed
tower of Babel.”
“We do not hope to scale Heaven, although, forsooth,
if the Masses said daily in Wallingford are steps in the
ladder, it will soon be long enough.”
And they both laughed grimly in a way which did not
infer implicit belief in the power of the Church.
“ The bath, then the board — prepare the bath for our
guest.”
So they led him to the bathroom, for the Normans
washed themselves, for which the natives charged them
THE LORD OF THE CASTLE
7
with effeminacy; and there they brought towels, and
perfumed waters, and other luxuries. After which two
pages conducted the guest to the great hall, which was
nearly a hundred feet in length. The high table stood at
the one end upon a platform, and there the Lord of
Wallingford seated himself, while upon his left hand sat
the Lady Maude, a lady of middle age, and upon his right
a seat of state was prepared, to which the pages led his
visitor.
Fully two hundred men banqueted in the hall that night,
boards on trestles were distributed all along the length at
right angles to the high table, with space between for the
servers to pass, and troops of boys and lower menials
squatted on the rushes, while the men-at-arms sat at the
board.
A gallery for the musicians projected above the feasters
on one side of the hall, and there a dozen performers with
harps and lutes played warlike songs, the while the
company below ate and drank. The music was rough but
seemed to stir the blood as its melody rose and fell.
And when at last the banquet was ended, a herald
commanded silence, and Brian Fitz-Count addressed the
listening throng :
“ My merry men all, our guest here bringeth us news
which may change our festal attire for helm and hauberk,
and convert our ploughshares and pruning -hooks into
swords and lances ; but nought more of this to-night, the
morrow we hunt the stag, and when we meet here on
to-morrow night I may have welcome news for all merry
men who love war and glory better than slothful ease.”
A loud burst of applause followed the speech, the
purport of which they fully understood, for the long peace
had wearied them, and they were all eager for the strife as
the beasts of prey for rapine, so in song and wassail they
spent the evening, while the Baron and his guest withdrew
to take secret council in an inner chamber.
CHAPTER II
THE CHASE
Hail, smiling morn,
That tips the hills with gold.”
The merry sound of horns blowing the reveilUe greeted
the sleepers as they awoke, lazily, and saw the morning
dawn shining through their windows of horn, or stretched
skin, or through the chinks of their shutters in the
chambers of Wallingford Castle, and in a very short space
of time the brief toilettes were performed, the hunting
garb donned, and the whole precincts swarmed with life,
while the clamour of dogs or of men filled the air.
Soon the doughty Baron with his commanding voice
stilled the tumult, as he gave his orders for the day ; the
dejeuner or breakfast of cold meats, washed down with ale,
mead, or wine, was next despatched, a hunting Mass was
said in “ St. Nicholas his Chapel ” — that is, a Mass shorn of
its due proportions and reduced within the reasonable com-
pass of a quarter of an hour — and before the hour of
Prime (7 A.M.) the whole train issued from the gates, Milo,
Sheriff of Gloucester,1 riding by the side of his host.
It was a bright, bracing morning that First of October,
the air keen but delicious — one of those days when we
hardly regret the summer which has left us and say we
like autumn best ; every one felt the pulses of life beat the
more healthily, as the hunting train rode up by the side of
the Moreton brook, towards distant Estune or East-town,
as Aston was then called.
1 Sir Milo was Sheriff of Gloucester, and was afterwards created Earl of
Hereford by the Empress Maude.
THE CHASE
9
They were now approaching a densely-wooded district,
for all that portion of the “ honour ” of Wallingford which
lay beneath the downs, was filled with wood and marsh
nourished by many slow and half stagnant streams, or pene-
trated by swiftly running brooks which still follow the same
general course through the district in its cultivated state.
At length they reached a wide open moor covered with
gorse or heather ; gay and brilliant looked the train as it
passed over the spot. The hunters generally wore a garb
familiar to some of us by pictorial representations, a green
hunting tunic girded by a belt with silver clasps, a hunting
knife in the girdle, a horn swung round the shoulder
dependent from the neck ; but beneath this gay attire the
great men wore suits of chain mail, so flexible that it did
not impede their movements nor feel half so uncomfortable
as some present suits of corduroy would feel to a modern
dandy. There were archers a few, there were also
spearmen who ran well and kept up with the mounted
company at a steady swinging trot, then there were fine-
looking dogs of enormous size, and of wondrous powers of
strength and motion. The very thought of it is enough to
make the modern hunter sigh for the “ good old times.”
Onward ! onward ! we fly, the moor is past, the hunting
train turns to the right and follows the course of the brook
towards the park of Blidberia (or Blewbery), the wood gets
thicker and thicker; it is a tangled marsh, and yet a
forest ; tall trees rise in endless variety, oaks that might
have borne mistletoes for the Druids ; huge beeches with
spreading foliage, beneath which Tityrus might have
reclined nor complained of want of shade ; willows rooted
in water ; decaying trunks of trees, rotting in sullen pools
of stagnant mire ; yet, a clear, fresh spring rushes along
by the side of the track.
And at intervals the outline of the Bearroc hills, the
Berkshire downs, rises above the forest, and solemnly in
the distance looms the huge tree -covered barrow, where
Cwichelm, the last King of Wessex, sleeps his long sleep
10
BRIAN F IT Z- COUNT
while his subjugated descendants serve their Norman
masters in the country around his hill-tomb.
And now a gallant stag is roused — a stag of ten
branches. He scents the dogs as the wind blows from
them to him, he shakes the dewdrops from his flanks, he
listens one moment to the clamour of the noisy pack of
canine foes, he shakes his head disdainfully, and rushes on
his headlong course. The dogs bark and bay, the horns
ring out, the voices of men and boys, cheering and shouting
as they spur their willing steeds, join the discord. Hark !
hark ! Halloa ! halloa ! Whoop ! whoop ! and onward
they fly. The timid hares and rabbits rush away or seek
their burrows. The hawks and birds of prey fly wildly
overhead in puzzled flight, as the wild huntsmen rush along.
But now the natural obstacles retard their flight, and
the stag gains the downs first, and speeds over the upper
plains. A mile after him, the hunt emerges just above the
tangled maze of Blewbery. Now all is open ground, and
the stag heads for Cwichelm’s Hlawe.
Swiftly they sweep along; the footmen are left far
behind. The wind is blowing hard, and the shadows of
fleecy clouds are cast upon the downs, but the riders
outstrip them, and leave the dark outlines behind them.
The leaves blow from many a fading tree, but faster rush
the wild huntsmen, and Brian Fitz-Count rides first.
They have left the clump on Blewbery down behind :
the sacred mound on which St. Birinus once stood when
he first preached the Gospel of Christ to the old English
folk of Wessex, is passed unheeded. When lo ! they cross
a lateral valley and the stag stops to gaze, then as if
mature reflection teaches him the wood and tangled marsh
are safer for him, descends again to the lower ground.
What a disappointment to be checked in such a gallant
run, to leave the springy turf and have again to seek the
woods and abate their speed, and what is worse, when they
enter the forest they find all the dogs at variance of
purpose ; a fox, their natural enemy, has crossed the track
THE CHASE
11
but recently, and nearly all the pack are after him, while
the rest hesitate and rush wildly about. The huntsmen
strive to restore order, but meanwhile the stag has gained
upon his pursuers. The poor hunted beast, panting as
though its heart would break, is safe for a while.
Let us use a tale-teller’s privilege and guide the reader
to another scene.
Not many furlongs from the spot where the hunters
stopped perplexed, stood a lonely cot in a green islet of
ground, amidst the mazy windings of a brook, which sprang
from the hills and rising from the ground in copious
streams, inundated the marsh and gave protection to the
dwellers of this primaeval habitation.
It was a large cottage for that period, divided into
three rooms, the outer and larger one for living, the two
inner and smaller for bedchambers. Its construction was
simple and not unlike those raised by the dwellers in the
wild parts of the earth now. Larches or pines, about the
thickness of a man’s leg, had been cut down, shaped with
an axe, driven into the earth at the intervals of half a yard,
willow-twigs had been twined round them, the interstices
had been filled with clay, cross beams had been laid upon
the level summits of the posts, a roof of bark supported
on lighter timber placed upon it, slightly shelving from
the ridge, and the outer fabric was complete. Then the
inner partitions had been made, partly with bark, partly
with skins, stretched from post to post ; light doors swung
on hinges of leather, small apertures covered with semi-
transparent skin formed the windows, and a huge aperture
in the roof over a hearth, whereon rested a portable iron
grate, served for chimney.
A table, roughly made, stood upon trestles, two or
three seats, like milking-stools, supplied the lack of chairs
— such was the furniture of the living room.
Over the fire sat the occupants of the house — whom we
must particularly introduce to our readers.
12
BRIAN FI TZ- COUNT
The first and most conspicuous was an old man, dressed
mainly in vestments of skin, but the one impression he
produced upon the beholder was “ fallen greatness.” Such
a face, such noble features, withered and wrinkled though
they were by age ; long masses of white hair, untouched
by barber or scissors, hung down his back, and a white
wavy beard reached almost to his waist.
By his side, attentive to his every word, sat a youth of
about sixteen summers, and he was also worthy of notice —
he seemed to combine the characteristic features of the
two races, Norman and English — we will not use that
misnomer “ Saxon,” our ancestors never called themselves
by other name than English after the Heptarchy was
dissolved. His hair was dark, his features shapely, but
there was that one peculiarity of feature which always
gives a pathetic look to the face — large blue eyes under
dark eyebrows.
The third person was evidently of lower rank than the
others, although this was not evident from any distinction
of dress, for poverty had obliterated all such tokens, but
from the general manner, the look of servitude, the air of
submission which characterised one born of a race of
thralls. In truth she was the sole survivor of a race of
hereditary bondsmen, who had served the ancestors of him
whom she now tended with affectionate fidelity amidst
poverty and old age.
Let us listen to their conversation, and so introduce
them to the reader.
“ And so, grandfather,” said the boy in a subdued voice
of deep feeling, “ you saw him, your father, depart for the
last time — the very last 'i ”
“I remember, as if it were but yesterday, when my
father gathered his churls and thralls1 around him at our
house at Kingestun under the downs to the west : there
1 Otherwise ceorls and theowes, tenant farmers and labourers, the
latter, bondsmen, “ adscripti glebce,” bought with the land, but who could
not be sold apart from it.
THE CHASE
13
were women and children, whose husbands and fathers
were going with him to join the army of Harold at
London ; they were all on foot, for we had few knights in
those days, but ere my father mounted his favourite horse
— ‘ Whitefoot ’ — he lifted me in his arms and kissed me.
I was but five years old, and then he pressed my mother
to his bosom, she gave one sob but strove to stifle it, as
the wife of a warrior should. Then all tried to cry —
* Long live Thurkill of Kingestun.’
“ ‘ Come, my men/ said my father, ‘ we shall beat these
dainty Frenchmen, as our countrymen have beaten the
Danes at Stamford, so the ‘bode’ here tells me. We go
to fill the places of the gallant dead who fell around our
Harold in the hour of victory — let there be no faint hearts
amongst us,’tis for home and hearth; good-bye, sweethearts,’
and they rode away.
“ They rode first to the Abbey town (Abingdon), and
there made their vows before the famous ‘Black Cross’
of that ancient shrine; then all bent them for the long
march to London town, where they arrived in time to
march southward with the hero king, the last English
king, and seventy-three years ago this very month of
October the end came ; blessed were the dead who fell
that awful day on the heights of Senlac, thrice blessed —
and cursed we who survived, to lose home, hearth, altar,
and all, and to beget a race of slaves.”
“ Nay, not slaves, grandfather ; thou hast never bent
the knee.”
“ Had I been ten years older, I had been at Senlac and
died by my father’s side.”
“ But your mother, you lived to comfort her.”
“Not long; when the news of our father’s death came,
she bore up for my sake — but when our patrimony was
taken by force, and we who had fought for our true king
were driven from our homes as rebels and traitors, to herd
with the beasts of the field ; when our thralls became the
bondsmen of men of foreign tongues and hard hearts — her
14
BRIAN FIT Z- COUNT
heart broke, and she left me alone, after a few months of
privation.”
“But you fought against the Norman.”
“ I fought by the side of the last Englishman who
fought at all, with Hereward and his brave men at the
‘Camp of Befuge’; and spent the prime of my life a
prisoner in the grim castle of the recreant Lords of
Wallingford.”
And he lifted up his eyes, suffused with tears, to
heaven.
“Why do you call the Lords of Wallingford Castle
recreant 1 ”
“ Because they were false to their country, in submitting
to the Norman invader. When the Conqueror came to
Southwark, the brave men of the city of London, guarded
by their noble river and Boman walls, bade him defiance.
So he came up the south bank of the stream to Wallingford,
where the shire-reeve (the sheriff), Wigod, was ready, like
a base traitor, to receive him. There Wigod sumptuously
entertained him, and the vast mound which told of
English victory in earlier days, became the kernel of a
Norman stronghold. The Conqueror gave the daughter
of Wigod in marriage to his particular friend, Bobert
d’Oyley, of Oxford Castle; and when men afterwards
saw men like Wigod of Wallingford and Edward of
Salisbury glutted with the spoils of Englishmen, better
and braver than themselves, they ate their bread in
bitterness of spirit, and praised the dead more than the
living.”
Just then a rustling in the branches attracted their
attention.
“ Oh, grandfather, there is a gallant stag ! may I go and
take him ? — it will replenish our larder for days. We
have been so hungry.”
“ It is death to kill the Baron’s deer.”
“ When he can catch us ! — that ! — for him,” and the
boy snapped his fingers.
THE CHASE
15
“Hist! I hear the sound of hound and horn — be
cautious, or we may get into dire trouble.”
“ Trust me, grandfather. Where are my arrows ? Oh,
here they are. Come, Bruno.”
And a large wolf-hound bounded forth, eager as his
young master.
CHAPTER III
WHO STRUCK THE STAG ?
“ It was a stag, a stag of ten,
Bearing his branches sturdily.”
We left the grandson of the recluse setting forth in quest
of the stag.
Forth he and his dog bounded from the thick covert in
which their cottage was concealed, and emerging from the
tall reeds which bordered the brook, they stood beneath
the shade of the mighty beech-trees, whose trunks upbore
the depse foliage, as pillars in the solemn aisles of cathedrals
support the superstructure ; for the woods were God’s first
temples, and the inhabitants of such regions drew from
them the inspiration from which sprang the various orders
of Gothic architecture.
Here Osric, for such was his name, paused and hid in a
thicket of hazel, for he spied the stag coming down the
glade towards him, he restrained the dog by the leash :
and the two lay in ambush.
The hunted creature, quite unsuspecting any new foes,
came down the glen, bearing his branches loftily, for
doubtless he was elate, poor beast, with the victory which
his heels had given him over his human and canine foes.
And now he approached the ambush : the boy had fitted
an arrow to his bow but hesitated, it seemed almost a
shame to lay so noble an animal low ; but hunger and
want are stern masters, and men must eat if they would live.
Just then the creature snuffed the tainted air, an
instant, and he would have escaped ; but the bow twanged,
and the arrow buried itself in its side, the stag bounded
WHO STRUCK THE STAG?
17
in the death agony towards the very thicket whence the
fatal dart had come ; when Osric met it, and drawing
his keen hunting-knife across its throat, ended its struggles
and its life together.
He had received a woodland education, and knew what
to do; he soon quartered the stag, whose blood the dog
was lapping, and taking one of the haunches on his
shoulders, entered the tangled maze of reeds and water
wherein lay his island-home.
“ Here, grandfather, here is one of the haunches, what
a capital fat one it is ! truly it will be a toothsome
morsel for thee, and many tender bits will there be to
suit thy aged teeth ; come, Judith, come and help me hang
it on the tree ; then I will go and fetch the rest, joint by
joint.”
“But stop, Osric, what sound, what noise is that ?” and
the old man listened attentively — then added —
“ Huntsmen have driven that stag hitherwards, and are
following on its trail.”
The breeze brought the uproarious baying of dogs and
cries of men down the woods. It was at that moment,
that, as stated in our last chapter, the fox had crossed the
track, and baffled them for the moment.
Alas for poor Osric, only for the moment, for the
huntsmen had succeeded in getting some of the older and
wiser hounds to take up the lost trail, and the scent of
their former enemy again greeting their olfactory organs,
they obeyed the new impulse — or rather the old one
renewed, and were off again after the deer. .
And as we see a flock of sheep, stopped by a fence,
hesitating where to go, until one finds a gap and all follow ;
so the various undecided dogs agreed that venison was
better than carrion, and the stag therefore a nobler quarry
than the fox; so, save a few misguided young puppies,
they resumed the legitimate chase.
The huntsmen followed as fast as the trees and bushes
allowed them, until, after a mile or two, they all came to a
c
18
BRIAN FITZ- COUNT
sudden stand, where the object of the chase had already-
met its death at the hands of Osric.
Meanwhile the unhappy youth had heard them drawing
nearer and nearer. He knew that it would be impossible
to escape discovery, unless the intricacies of their retreat
should baffle the hunters, whom they heard drawing nearer
and nearer. The dogs, they knew, would not pursue the
chase beyond the place of slaughter. Oh ! if they had but
time to mangle it before the men arrived, so that the
manner in which it had met its death might not be
discovered — but that was altogether unlikely. And in
truth clamorous human cries mingled with wild vociferous
barkings, howlings, bayings, and other canine clamour,
showed that the hunt was already assembled close by.
“ I will go forth and own the deed : then perhaps they
will not inquire further ”
“Nay, my son, await God’s Will here.”
And the old man restrained the youth.
At length they heard such words as these —
“ He cannot be far off.”
“He is hidden amongst the reeds.”
“ Turn in the dogs.”
“ They have tasted blood and are useless.”
“Fire the reeds.”
“Nay, grandfather, I must go, the reeds are dry, they
will burn us all together. They may show me mercy if I
own it bravely.”
“ Nay, they love their deer too well; they will hang thee
on the nearest beech.”
“ Look ! they have fired the reeds.”
“ It may be our salvation : they cannot penetrate them
when burning, and see, if the smoke stifle us not, the fire
will not reach us ; there is too much green and dank
vegetation around the brook between us and the reeds.”
“Ah! the wind blows it the other way; nay, it eddies —
see that tongue of flame darting amongst the dry fuel —
now another : that thick smoke — there it is changed to
WHO STRUCK THE STAG ?
19
flame. Oh, grandfather, let us get off by the other side — at
once — at once.”
“ Thou forgettest I am a cripple ; but there may be time
for you and Judith to save yourselves.”
“Nay,” said Osric, proudly, “we live or die together.”
“ Judith will stay with her old master,” said the poor
thrall, “ and with her young lord too.”
They were yet “ lords ” in her eyes, bereft although they
were of their once vast possessions.
“ Perhaps we are as safe here ; their patience will wear
out before they can penetrate the island. See, they are
firing the reeds out yonder. Normans love a conflagration,”
said the old man.
In fact, it was as much with that inherent love of making
a blaze, which had marked the Normans and the Danes from
the beginning, when church, homestead, barn, and stack,
were all kindled as the fierce invaders swept through the
land ; that the mischievous and vindictive men-at-arms had
fired the reeds, wherein they thought the slayer of the deer
had taken refuge, when they found that the dogs would
not enter after him. There was little fear of any further
harm than the clearing of a few acres. The trees were
too damp to burn, or indeed to take much harm from so
hasty and brief a blaze : so they thought, if they thought
at all.
But the season had been dry, the material was as tinder,
and the blaze reached alarming proportions — several wild
animals ran out, and were slain by the bystanders, others
were heard squeaking miserably in the flames ; but that
little affected the hardened folk of the time, they had to
learn mercy towards men, before the time came to start a
society for the prevention of cruelty to animals.
“He cannot be there or he would have run out by
this time.”
“ He has escaped the other side.”
“ Nay, Alain and his men have gone round there to
look out.”
20
BRIAN FITZ- COUNT
“ But they cannot cross the brook on foot, and even a
horse would get stuck in the mire.”
“ They will do their best.”
The three in the cottage saw the flames rise and crackle
all round them, and the dense clouds of smoke were stifling.
Osric got water from the brook and dashed it all over the
roof and the more inflammable portions of their dwelling,
lest a spark should kindle them, and worked hard at his
self-imposed task, in the intense heat.
But the conflagration subsided almost as rapidly as it
arose from sheer want of fuel, and with the cessation of
the flames came the renewal of the danger of discovery.
Other voices were now heard, one loud and stern as
befitted a leader : —
“What meaneth this? Who hath kindled the reeds
without my order ? ”
“ The deer-slayer lurketh within.”
“ What deer-slayer ? Who struck the stag ? ”
“We know not. It could not have been many minutes
before we arrived ; the carcase was still warm.”
“ He must be caught ; thou shalt not suffer a poacher to
live, is the royal command, and mine too ; but did you not
set the dogs after him ? ”
“ They had tasted blood, my lord.”
“ But if he were hidden herein, he must have come forth.
If the bed of reeds were properly encircled — it seems to
cover some roods of forest.”
“ A shame for so fine a beast to be so foully murdered.”
“ It was a stag of ten branches.”
“And he gave us good sport.”
“We will hang his slayer in his honour.”
“ A fine acorn for a lusty oak.”
“ When we catch him.”
“ He shall dance on nothing, and we will amuse ourselves
by his grimaces.”
“ Nothing more laughable than the face a pendu makes
with the rope round his neck.”
WHO STRUCK THE STAG ?
21
“ Has anybody got a rope 1 ”
“ Has anybody found the poacher 1 ”
A general laugh.
“Silence, listen.”
A dry old oak which had perhaps seen the Druids, and
felt the keen knife bare its bosom of the hallowed mistletoe,
had kindled and fallen; as it fell sending forth showers upon
showers of sparks.
The fall of the tree opened a sort of vista in the flames,
and revealed
“ Look,” said the Baron, “ I see something like the roof
of a hut just beyond the opening the tree has made.”
“ I think so too,” said Sir Milo of Gloucester.
“ Very well, wait here awhile, my men ; these reeds
are all burnt, and the ground will soon cool, then you
may go in and see what that hut contains : reserve them
for my judgment. Here, Tristam, here, Raoul, hold our
horses.”
Two sprightly-looking boy pages took the reins, and
Brian and Milo, if we may presume to call them by such
familiar appellations, walked together in the glade.
Deep were their cogitations, and how much the welfare
of England depended upon them, would hardly be believed
by our readers. We would fain reveal what they said, but
only the half can be told.
“ It can be endured no longer ! ”
“ Soon no one but he will be allowed to build a castle ! ”
“ But to lay hands upon two anointed prelates.”
“ The Bishops of Sarum and Lincoln.”
“Arrested just when they were trusting to his good
faith.”
“ The one in the king’s own ante-chamber, the other in
his lodgings eating his dinner.”
“ The Bishop of Ely only escaped by the skin of his
teeth.”
“ And he, too, was forced to surrender his castle, for
the king vowed that the Bishop of Salisbury should have
22
BRIAN FIT Z- COUNT
no food until his nephew of Ely surrendered, and led poor
Roger, pale and emaciated, stretching forth his skinny
hands, and entreating his nephew to save him from starva-
tion, to and fro before the walls, until he gained his ends,
and the castle was yielded.”
“He is not our true king, but a foul usurper.”
“ Well, my good cousin, a few hours may bring us news.
But, listen ; can our folk have caught the deer-slayers ? let
us return to them.”
In the absence of their leaders, the men-at-arms, con-
fiding in the goodness of their boots and leggings, had
trodden across the smoking soil in the direction where
their leader had pointed out the roof of a hut amidst leafy
trees, and had quickly discovered their victims, crossed the
brook, and surrounded the house.
“ Come forth, Osric, my son,” said the old man, “ what-
ever befalls, let us not disgrace our ancestry ; let nothing
become us in life more than the mode of leaving it, if die
we must.”
“ But must we die ? what have we done ? ”
“Broken their tyrannical laws. Judith, open the door.”
A loud shout greeted the appearance of the old man, his
beard descending to his waist, as he issued forth, leading
Osric by the hand.
“ What seek ye, Normans? wherefore have ye surrounded
my humble home, whither tyranny has driven me ? ”
A loud shout of exultation.
“ The deer — give up the deer — confess thy guilt.”
“ Search for it ” — “ a haunch was gone ” — “ if in the
house, we need no further trial ” — “ to the nearest tree.”
The house was rudely entered — but the haunch, which
had been removed from the tree and hidden by Judith,
could not be found.
“ Ye have no proof that we have offended.”
They searched a long while in vain, they opened
cupboard and chest, but no haunch appeared.
“ Examine them by torture : try the knotted cord.”
WHO STRUCK THE STAG ?
23
“ One should never go out without thumbscrews in this
vile country ; they would fit that young poacher’s thumbs
well.”
Just then the Baron was seen returning from his stroll
with his guest.
“ Bring them to the Baron ! bring them to the Baron !”
“ And meanwhile fire the house.”
“ Nay, not till we have orders ; our master is stern and
strict.”
CHAPTER IV
IN THE GREENWOOD
“ What shall he have who killed the deer ? ”
The return of Brian Fitz-Count and his companion from
their stroll in the woods probably saved our aged friend
Sexwulf and his grandson from much rough treatment, for
although in the presence of express orders from their dread
lord, the men-at-arms would not attempt aught against the
life of their prisoners, yet they might have offered any
violence and rudeness short of that last extremity, in their
desire to possess proof of the slaughter of the deer.
Poor beast, the cause of so much strife : it had behoved
him to die amongst the fangs of the hounds, and he had
been foully murdered by arrow and knife ! It was not to
be endured.
But no sooner did the Baron return, than the scene was
changed.
“What means this clamour? Shut your mouths, ye
hounds ! and bring the deer-slayers before me ; one would
think Hell had broken loose amongst you.”
He sat deliberately down on the trunk of a fallen tree,
and called Milo to be his assessor ( amicus curiae ), as one
might have said.
A circle was immediately formed, and the old man and
boy, their arms tied behind them, were placed before their
judge.
He looked them sternly in the face, as if he would read
their hearts.
“ Whose serfs are ye ? ”
IN THE GREENWOOD
25
“ We were never in bondage to any man.”
“ It is a lie — all Englishmen are in serfdom.”
“ Time will deliver them.”
“Do yoa dare to bandy words with me; if so, a short
shrift and a long halter will suffice : you are within my
jurisdiction, and your lives are as much in my power as
those of my hounds.”
This was not said of hot temper, but bred of that
cool contempt which the foreign lords felt for the con-
quered race with which, nevertheless, they were destined
to amalgamate.
“ Your names 1 ”
“ Sexwulf, son of Thurkill, formerly thane of Kingestun.”
“ Whose father fell in the fight at Senlac (Hastings), by
the side of the perjured Harold ; and is this thy son ?
brought up doubtless to be a rebel like thyself.”
“ He is my grandson.”
“And how hast thou lived here, so long unknown, in
my woods ? ”
“ The pathless morass concealed us.”
“ And how hast thou lived 1 I need not ask, on my red
deer doubtless.”
“ No proof has been found against us,” said the old man,
speaking with that meek firmness which seemed to impress
his questioner.
“And now, what hast thou done with the haunch of
this deer ? ”
“ I have not slain one.”
“ But the boy may have done so — come, old man, thou
lookest like one who would not lie even to save his neck ;
now if thou wilt assure me, on the faith of a Christian, and
swear by the black cross of Abingdon that thou knowest
nought of the deer, I will believe thee.”
A pause — but Brian foresaw the result of his appeal.
“ I cannot,” said the captive at length ; “ I did not slay
it, yet if, according to your cruel laws, a man must die for
a deer : I refuse not to die — I am weary of the world.”
26
BRIAN FITZ- COUNT
“ Nay, the father shall not bear the iniquity of the son ;
that were contrary to Scripture and to all sound law.”
“Grandfather, thou shalt not die,” interrupted the
boy ; “ Baron, it was I ; hut must I die for it ? we were so
hungry”
“ Oh my lord, crush not the young life in the spring-
time of youth. God has taken all my children in turn
from me, He has deprived me of home and kin : but He
is just. He has left this boy to comfort my old age :
take not away the light of the old man’s eyes. See I,
who never asked favour of Norman or foreign lord before,
bow my knees to thee ; let the boy live, or if not, let both
die together.”
“ One life is enough for one deer.”
“Nay, then let me die.”
“ Who slew the deer ? ”
“ I, my lord, and I must die, not my grandfather.”
“ It was for me, and I must die, as the primal cause of
the deed,” said the old man.!
“By the teeth of St. Peter, I never saw two thralls
contending for the honour of a rope before,” said Milo.
“ Nor I, but they have taken the right way to escape.
Had they shown cowardice, I should have felt small pity,
but courage and self-devotion ever find a soft place in my
heart; besides, there is something about this boy which
interests me more than I can account for. Old man, tell
the truth, as thou hopest for the life of the boy. Is he
really thy grandson ? ”
“He is the son of my daughter, now with the Saints.”
“ And who was his sire ? ”
“An oppressed Englishman.”
“ Doubtless : you all think yourselves oppressed, as my
oxen may, because they are forced to draw the plough, but
the boy has the face of men of better blood, and I should
have said there was a cross in the breed : but hearken !
Malebouche, cut their bonds, take a party of six, escort
them to the castle, place them in the third story of the
IN THE GREENWOOD
27
North Tower, give them food and drink, but let none have
access to them till I return.”
Further colloquy was useless ; the Baron spoke like a
man whose mind was made up, and his vassals had no
choice but to obey.
Therefore the party broke up, the rest of the train to
seek another stag, if they could find one, but Brian called
the Sheriff of Gloucester aside.
They stood in a glade of the forest near a tree blown
down by the wind, where they could see the downs beyond.
“ Dost see that barrow, Sir Milo ? ”
“ I do.”
“ It is called Cwichelm’s Hlawe ; there an old king of
these English was buried ; they say he walks by night.”
“ A likely place.”
“Well, I have a curiosity to test the fact, moreover the
hill commands a view unrivalled in extent in our country ;
I shall ride thither.”
“In search of ghosts and night scenery, the view will
be limited in darkness.”
“ But beacon fires will show best in the dark.”
“ I comprehend ; shall I share thy ride 1 ”
“ Nay, my friend, my mind is ill at rest, I want solitude.
Return with the hunting train and await my arrival at the
castle ; and the Baron beckoned to his handsome young
page Alain, to lead the horse to him.
“Well, Alain, what didst thou think of the young
Englishman ? He confronted death gallantly enough.”
“ He is only half an Englishman ; I am sure he has
Norman blood, noblesse oblige ,” replied the boy, who was a
spoiled pet of his stern lord, stern to others.
“ Well, the old man feared the cord as little.”
“ He has not much life left to beg for : one foot in the
grave already.”
“ How wouldst thou like that boy for a fellow-page 1 ”
“ Not at all, my lord.”
“ And why not ? ”
28
BRIAN FITZ- COUNT
“ Because I would like my companions to_ be of known
lineage and of gentle blood on both sides.”
“ The great Conqueror himself was not.”
“ And hence many despised him.”
“ They did not dare tell him so.”
“ Then they were cowards, my lord ; I hope my tongue
shall never conceal what my heart feels.”
“ My boy, if thou crowest so loudly, I fear thou wilt
have a short life.”
“ I can make my hands keep my head, at least against
my equals.”
“ Art thou sorry I pardoned the lad then ? ”
“ No, I like not to see the brave suffer ; had he been
a coward I should have liked the sport fairly well.”
“ Sport ? ”
“ It is so comical to see deer-stealers dance on nothing,
and it serves them right.”
Now, do not let my readers think young Alain un-
natural, he was of his period; pity had small place, and
the low value set on life made boys and even men often
see the ridiculous side of a tragedy, and laugh when they
should have wept : yet courage often touched their sym-
pathies, when entreaty would have failed.
But the Lord of Wallingford was in a gentle frame of
mind, uncommon in him : he had not merely been touched
by the strife, which of the two should die, between the ill-
assorted pair, but there had been something in every tone
and gesture of the boy which had awakened strange
sympathy in his heart, and the sensation was so unprece-
dented, that Brian longed for solitude to analyse it.
In truth, the prisoners had not been in great danger, for
although their judge was pleased to try their courage, he
had not the faintest intention of proceeding to any
extremities with either grandsire or grandson — not at least
after he had heard the voice of the boy.
The party broke up, the Baron rode on alone towards
the heights, the sheriff, attended by young Alain, returned
IN THE GREENWOOD
29
down the course of the stream towards the castle. The rest
separated into divers bands, some to hunt for deer or
smaller game, so as not to return home with empty hands,
to the great wrath of the cooks and others also. Male-
bouche with six archers escorted the prisoners. They rode
upon one steed, the boy in front of his sire.
“ Old man, what is the stripling’s name ? ”
“ Osric.”
“ And you will not tell who his sire was ? ”
“ If I would not tell your dread lord, I am not likely to
tell thee.”
“Because I have a guess : a mere suspicion.”
“ ‘ Thoughts are free;’ it will soon be shown whether it be
more.”
“ Which wouldst thou soonest be in thy heart, boy,
English or Norman 1 ”
“ English,” said the boy firmly.
“ Thou preferrest then the deer to the lion 1 ”
“ I prefer to be the oppressed rather than the oppressor.”
“Well, well, each man to his taste, but I would sooner
be the wolf who eats, than the sheep which is eaten ; of
the two sensations I prefer the former. Now dost thou see
that proud tower soaring into the skies down the brook ?
it is the keep of Wallingford Castle. Stronger hold is not
in the Midlands.”
“ I have been there before,” said old Sexwulf.
“ Not in my time.”
Our readers may almost have forgotten the existence of
the poor thrall Judith during the exciting scene we have
narrated.
She loved her masters, young and old, deeply loved them
did this hereditary slave, and her anxiety had been extreme
during the period of their danger : she skipped in and out
of the hut, for no one thought her worth molesting, she
peered through the bushes, she acted like a hen partridge
whose young are in danger, and when they bound Osric,
30
BRIAN FIT Z- COUNT
actually flew at the men-at-arms, but they thrust her so
roughly aside that she fell ; little recked they. An English
thrall, were she wife, mother, or daughter, was naught in
their estimation.
Yet she did not feel the same anxiety in one respect, which
Sexwulf felt. “ I can save him yet,” she muttered ; “ they
shall never put a rope around his bonnie neck, not even if
I have to betray the secret I have kept since his infancy.”
So she listened close at hand. Once or twice she seemed
on the point of thrusting herself forward, when the fate of
her dear boy seemed to hang in the balance, but restrained
herself.
“ I promised,” she said, “ I promised, and he will grieve
to learn that I was faithless to my word. The old woman
has a soul, aged crone though she be : and I swore by the
black cross of Abingdon. Yet black cross or white one, I
would risk the claws of Satan, sooner than allow the rope
to touch his neck : bad enough that it should encircle his
fair wrists.”
When at last the suspense was over, and the grandsire
and grandson were ordered to be taken as prisoners to the
castle, she seemed content.
‘‘I must see him,” she said, “and tell him what has
chanced : he will know what to do.”
Just then she heard a voice which startled her.
“ Shall we burn the hut, my lord V’
A moment of suspense : then came the stern reply.
“ He that doth so shall hang from the nearest oak.”
She chuckled.
“ The spell already works,” she said ; “ I may return to
the shelter which has been mine so long. He will not
harm them.”
The time of the separation of the foe had now come ;
the Baron rode off to his midnight watch on Cwichelm ;
Malebouche conducted the two captives along the road to
the distant keep; the others, men and dogs, circulated
right and left in the woods.
IN THE GREENWOOD
31
The woods and reeds were still smoking, the atmosphere
was dense and murky, as Judith returned to the hut.
She sat by the fire which still smoked on the hearth,
and rocked herself to and fro, and as she sat she sang in
an old cracked voice —
“They sought my bower one murky night,
They burnt my bower, they slew my knight ;
My servants all for life did flee,
And left me in extremitie :
But vengeance yet shall have its way,
When shall the son the sire betray ?”
The last line was very enigmatical, like a Delphic
response ; perhaps our tale may solve it.
Then at last she arose, and going to a corner of the hut,
opened a chest filled with poor coarse articles of female
attire, such as a slave might wear, but at the bottom
wrapped in musty parchment was something of greater
value.
It was a ring with a seal, and a few articles of baby
attire, a little red shoe, a small frock, and a lock of maiden’s
hair.
She kissed the latter again and again, ere she looked
once more at the ring : it bore a crest upon a stone of
opal, and she laughed weirdly.
The crest was the crest of Brian Fitz-Count.
CHAPTER Y
cwichelm’s hlawe
It was a wild and lonely spot, eight hundred feet above
sea level, the highest ground of the central downs of
Berkshire, looking northward over a vast expanse of
fertile country, as yet but partially tilled, and mainly
covered with forest.
A tumulus or barrow of huge dimensions arose on the
summit, no less than one hundred and forty yards in
circumference, and at that period some fifty feet in height ;
it had been raised five hundred years earlier in the history
of the country over the remains of the Saxon King
Cwichelm, son of Cynegils, and grandson of Ceol, who
dwelt in the Isle of Ceol — or Ceolseye — and left his
name to Cholsey.
A wood of firs surrounded the solemn mound, which,
however, dominated them in height ; the night wind was
sighing dreamily over them, the heavens were alternately
light and dark as the aforesaid wind made rifts in the
cloud canopy and closed them again — ever and anon
revealing the moon wading amidst, or rather beyond, the
masses of vapour.
An aged crone stood on the summit of the mound clad
in long flowing garments of coarse texture, bound around
the waist with a girdle of leather ; her hair, white as snow,
streamed on the wind. She supported her strength by an
ebony staff chased with Runic figures. Any one who gazed
might perchance have thought her a sorceress, or at least a
seer of old times raised again into life.
CWICHELM'S HLAWE
33
“ Ah, he comes ! ”
Over the swelling ridges of the downs she saw a
horseman approaching; heard before she saw, for the
night was murky.
The horseman dismounted in the wood, tied his horse
to a tree, left it with a huge boar-hound, as a guard, and
penetrating the wood, ascended the mound.
“ Thou art here, mother : the hour is come ; it is the
first day of the vine-month, as your sires called it.”
“ Yes, the hour is come, the stars do not lie, nor did the
mighty dead deceive me.”
“ The dead ; call them not, whilst I am here.”
“Dost thou fear them? We must all share their state
some day.”
“ I would sooner, far sooner, not anticipate the time.”
“ Yet thou hast sent many, and must send many more,
to join them.”
“ It is the fortune of war ; I have had Masses said for
their souls. It might have chanced to me.”
“ Ha ! ha ! so thou wouldst not slay soul and body
both?”
“ God forbid ”
“Well, once I believed in Priest and Mass — I, whom
they call the witch of ‘Cwichelm’s Hlawe’ : now -I prefer
the gods of war, of storm, and of death; Woden, Thor,
and Teu ; nay, even Hela of horrid aspect.”
“ Avaunt thee, witch ! wouldst worship Satan ! ”
“ Since God helped me not : listen, Brian Fitz-Count.
I, the weird woman of the haunted barrow, was once a
Christian, and a nun.”
“ A nun ! ”
“ Yea, and verily. A few of us had a little cell, a dozen
were we in number, and we lived under the patronage — a
poor reed to lean on we found it — of St. Etheldreda.1 Now
a stern Norman like thyself came into those parts after
the conquest ; he had relations abroad who ‘ served God ’
1 See a similar instance in Thierry’s Norman Conquest, vol. i.
D
34
BRIAN FITZ- COUNT
after another rule ; he craved our little home for them ; he
drove us out to perish in the coldest winter I remember.
The abbess, clinging to her home and refusing to go, was
slain by the sword : two or three others died of cold ; we
sought shelter in vain, the distress was everywhere. I
roamed hither — I was born at the village of Hendred below
— my friends were dead and gone, my father had followed
Thurkill of Kingestun, and been killed at Senlac. My
mother, in consequence, had been turned out of doors by
the new Norman lord, and none ever learned what became
of her, my sweet mother ! my brothers had become out-
laws ; my sisters — well, I need tell thee no more. I lost
faith in the religion, in the name of which, and under the
sanction of whose chief teacher, the old man who sits at
Eome, the thing had been done. They say I went mad.
I know I came here, and that the dead came and spoke
with me, and I learned mysteries of which Christians
dream not, yet which are true for good or ill.”
“ And by their aid thou hast summoned me here, but I
marvel thou hast not perished as a witch amidst fire and
faggot.”
“ They protect me !”
“Who are they?”
“ Never mind ; that is my secret.”
“ Thou didst tell me that if I came to-night I should
see the long-expected signal to arm my merrie men, and
do battle for our winsome ladie.”
“ Cry havoc, and let slip the dogs of war. Well, I told
thee truly : the hour is nigh, wait and watch with me ; fix
thine eyes on the south.”
Dim and misty the outlines of the hills looked in that
uncertain gloaming ; here and there a light gleamed from
some peasant’s hut, for the hour of eight had not yet
struck, when, according to the curfew law, light and fire
had to be extinguished. But our lone watchers saw them
all disappear at last, and still the light they looked for
shone not forth.
cwichelm's hlawe
35
“ Why does not the hale-fire blaze ?”
“ Baleful shall its influence be.”
“ Woman, one more question I have. Thou knowest my
family woes, that I have neither kith nor kin to succeed
me, no gallant boy for whom to win honour : two have I
had, but they are dead to the world.”
“ The living death of leprosy.”
“ And one — not indeed the lawful child of my spouse —
was snatched from me in tender infancy; one whom I
destined for my heir : for why should that bar-sinister
which the Conqueror bore sully the poor child. Thou
rememberest ?”
“ Thou didst seek me in the hour of thy distress, and I
told thee the child lived.”
“Does it yet live? tell me.” And the strong man
trembled with eagerness and emotion as he looked her
eagerly in the face.
“ They have not told me ; I know not.”
“ Methinks I saw him to-day.”
“ Where ?”
“ In the person of a peasant lad — the grandson of an
old man, who has lived, unknown, in my forest, and slain
my deer.”
“And didst thou hang him, according to thy wont?”
“ No, for he was brave, and something in the boy’s look
troubled me, and reminded me of her I once called my
‘ Aim&e.’ She was English, but Eadgyth was hard to pro-
nounce, so I called her ‘ Aim6e.’ ”
“ Were there any marks by which you could identify
your boy? Pity such a race should cease.”
“ I remember none. And the grandfather claims the lad
as his own. Tell me, is he mine ?”
“ I know not, but there is a way in which thou canst
inquire.”
“How?”
“ Hast thou courage ?”
“None ever questioned it and lived.”
36
BRIAN FITZ- COUNT
“ But many could face the living, although girt in triple
mail, who fear the dead.”
“ I am distracted with hope.”
“And thou canst face the shrouded dead ?”
“ I would dare their terrors.”
“ Sleep here, then, to-night.”
“ Where ?”
“ In a place which I will show thee, ha ! ha ! ”
“Is it near?”
“Beneath thy feet.”
“ Beneath my feet ?”
“It is the sepulchre of the royal dead.”
“ Of Cwichelm ?”
“ Even he.”
“May I see it? the bale-fire blazes not, and it is cold
waiting here.”
“ Come.”
“ Lead on, I follow.”
She descended the sloping sides of the mound, he
followed. At the base, amidst nettles and briars, was a
rude but massive door. She drew forth a heavy key and
opened it. She passed along a narrow passage undeterred
by a singular earthy odour oppressive to the senses, and
the Baron followed until he stood by her side, in a chamber
excavated in the very core of the huge mound.
There, in the centre, was a large stone coffin, and within
lay a giant skeleton.
“ It is he, who was king of this land.”
“ Cwichelm, son of Ceol, who dwelt in the spot they
now call Ceolseye.”
“And the son of the Christian King of Wessex — they
mingled Christian and Pagan rites when they buried him
here. See his bow and spear.”
“ But who burrowed this passage ? Surely they left it
not who buried him ? ”
“ Listen, and your ears shall drink in no lies. Folk said
that his royal ghost protected this spot, and that if the
CWICHELMS HLAWE
37
heathen Danes came where the first Christian king lay,
guarding the land, even in death, they should see the sea
no more. Now, in the Christmas of the year 1006, aided
by a foul traitor, Edric Streorn, they left the Isle of Wight,
where they were wintering, and travelling swiftly, burst
upon the ill-fated, unwarned folk of this land, on the very
day of the Nativity, for Edric had removed the guardians
of the beacon fires.1 They burnt Reading; they burnt
Cholsey, with its church and priory; they burned Wal-
lingford ; they slew all they met, and left not man or
beast alive whom they could reach, save a few most un-
happy captives, whom they brought here after they had
burned Wallingford, for here they determined to abide as
a daring boast, having heard of the prophecy, and despising
it. And here they revelled after the fashion of fiends for
nine days and nights. Each day they put to death nine
miserable captives with the torture of the Rista Eorn, and
so they had their fill of wine and blood. And as they had
heard that treasures were buried with Cwichelm, they exca-
vated this passage. Folk said that they were seized with an
awful dread, which prevented their touching his bones or
further disturbing his repose. At length they departed,
and each year since men have seen the ghosts of their victims
gibbering in the moonlight between Christmas and Twelfth
Day.”
“ Hast thou 1 ”
“ Often, but covet not the sight ; it freezes the very
marrow in the bones. Only beware that thou imitate not
these Danes in their wickedness.”
“I?”
“Yes, even thou.”
“ Am I a heathen dog ? ”
“ What thou art I know, what thou wilt become I think
I trow. But peace : wouldst thou invoke the dead king to
learn thy future path 1 I can raise him.”
Brian Fitz-Count was a brave man, but he shuddered.
1 I have told the story of this Danish invasion in Alfgar the Dane.
38
BRIAN F IT Z- COUNT
“ Another time ; besides, mother, the bale-fire may be
blazing even now ! ”
“ Come and see, then. I foresee thou wilt return in
time of sore need.”
They reached the summit of the mound. The change
to the open air was most refreshing.
“ Ah ! the bale-fire ! ! ”
Over the rolling wastes, far to the south, arose the
mountainous range now called Highclere. It was but faintly
visible in the daytime, and under the uncertain moonlight,
only those familiar with the locality could recognise its
position. The central peak was now tipped with fire,
crowned with a bright flickering spot of light.
And while they looked, Lowbury caught the blaze, and
its beacon fire glowed in the huge grating which surmounted
the tower, whose foundations may yet be traced. From
thence, Synodune took up the tale and told it to the
ancient city of Dorchester, whose monks looked up from
cloistered hall and shuddered. The heights of Nettlebed
carried forward the fiery signal, and blazing like a comet,
told the good burgesses of Henley and Beading that evil
days were at hand. The Beacon Hill, above Shirburne
Castle, next told the lord of that baronial pile that he
might buckle on his armour, and six counties saw the
blaze on that beacon height. Faringdon Clump, the home
of the Ffaringas of old, next told the news to the distant
Cotswolds and the dwellers around ancient Corinium ; and
soon Painswick Beacon passed the tidings over the Severn
to the old town of Gloucester, whence Milo came, and far
beyond to the black mountains of Wales. The White Horse
alarmed Wiltshire, and many a lover of peace shook his
head and thought of wife and children, although but few
knew what it all meant, namely, that the Empress Maud,
the daughter of the Beauclerc, had come to claim her
father’s crown, which Stephen, thinking it right to realise the
prophecy contained in his name,1 had put on his own head.
1 “Stephanus” signifies “a crown.”
cwichelm's hlawe
39
And from Cwichelm’s Hlawe the curious ill-assorted
couple we have portrayed beheld the war beacons’ blaze.
She lost all her self-possession, she became entranced ;
her hair streamed behind her in the wind ; she stretched
out her aged arms to the south and sang — did that crone
of ninety years —
“ Come hither, fatal cloud of death,
O’er England breathe thy hateful breath ;
Breathe o’er castles, churches, towns,
Brood o’er flat plain, and cloud-flecked downs,
Until the streams run red with gore,
From eastern sea to western shore.
Let mercy frighted haste away,
Let peace and love no longer stay ,
Let justice outraged swoon away,
But let revenge and bitter hate
Alone control the nation’s fate ;
Let fell discord the chorus swell,
Let every hold become a hell
Let ”
“Nay, nay, mother, enough ! Thou ravest. Every hold
a hell ! not at least Wallingford Castle ! ”
“That worst of all, Brian Fitz- Count. There are
possibilities of evil in thee, which might make Satan laugh !
Thy sword shall make women childless, thy torch light
up ”
“ Nay, nay, no more, I must away. My men will go
mad when they see these fires. I must home, to control,
advise, direct.”
“Go, and the powers of evil be with thee. Work out
thy curse and thy doom, since so it must be ! ”
CHAPTER VI
ON THE DOWNS
We fear that Brian Fitz-Count must have sunk in the
reader’s estimation. After the perusal of the last chapter,
it is difficult to understand how a doughty warrior and
belted knight could so demean himself as to take an old
demented woman into his consultations, and come to her
for guidance.
Let us briefly review the phases of mind through which
he had passed, and see whether we can find any rational
explanation of his condition.
The one great desire of Brian’s life was to have a son
to whom he could bequeath his vast possessions, and his
reflected glory. Life was short, but if he could live, as
it were, in the persons of his descendants, it seemed as if
death would be more tolerable. God heard his prayer.
He had two sons, fine lads, by his Countess, and awhile he
rejoiced in them, but the awful scourge of leprosy made its
appearance in his halls. For a long time he would not
credit the reality of the infliction, and was with difficulty
restrained from knocking down the physician who first
announced the fact. By degrees the conviction was forced
upon him, and the law of the time — the unwritten law
especially — forced him to consign them to a house of mercy
for lepers, situated near Byfield in Northamptonshire.
Poor boys, they wept sore, for they were old enough to
share their father’s craving for glory and distinction ; but
they were torn away and sent to this living tomb, for in
the eyes of all men it was little better.
ON THE DOWNS
41
Brian wearied Heaven with prayers ; he had Masses
innumerable said on their behalf ; he gave alms to all the
churches of Wallingford for the poor; he'made benefactions
to Beading Abbey and the neighbouring religious houses ;
he helped to enrich the newly-built church of Cholsey,
built upon the ruins of the edifice the Danes had burnt.
But still Heaven was obdurate, the boys did not recover,
and he had to part with the delight of his eyes.
And then ensued a sudden collapse of faith. He ceased
to pray. God heard not prayer : perhaps there was no
God ; and he ceased from his good deeds, gave no alms,
neglected Divine service, and became a sceptic in heart —
secretly, however, for whatever a man might think in his
heart in those days of ecclesiastical power, the doughtiest
baron would hesitate to avow scepticism; men would
condone, as, alas, many do now, an irreligious life, full of
deeds of evil, if only the evil-doer professed to believe in the
dominant Creed.
When a man ceases to believe in God, he generally
comes to believe in the Devil. Men must have a belief of
some sort ; so in our day, men who find Christianity too
difficult, take to table turning, and like phenomena, and
practise necromancy of a mild description.
So it was then. Ceasing to believe in God, Brian
Fitz-Count believed in witches.
The intense hatred of witchcraft, begotten of dread,
which kindled the blazing funeral pyres of myriads of
people, both guilty — at least in intention — and innocent of
the black art, had not yet attained its height.
Pope Innocent had not yet pronounced his fatal decree.
The witch inquisitors had not yet started on their pere-
grinations, Hopkins had yet to be born, and so the poor
crazed nun who had done no one any harm, whom wise
men thought mad, and foolish ones inspired, was allowed
to burrow at Cwichelm’s Hlawe.
And many folk resorted to her, to make inquiries about
lost property, lost kinsfolk, the present and the future.
42
BRIAN FITZ- COUNT
Amongst others, a seneschal of Wallingford, who had lost a
valuable signet ring belonging to his lord.
“ On your return to the castle seize by the throat the
first man you meet after you pass the portals. He will have
the ring.”
And the first man the seneschal met was a menial
employed to sweep and scour the halls ; him without fear
he seized by the throat. “ Give me the ring thou hast
found,” and lo, the affrighted servitor, trembling, drew it
forth and restored it.
Brian heard of the matter ; it penetrated through the
castle. He gave orders to hang the servitor, but the poor
wretch took sanctuary in time ; and then he rode over to
Cwichelm’s Hlawe himself.
What was his object %
To inquire after his progeny.
One son, a beautiful boy, had escaped the fatal curse,
but it was not the child of his wife. Brian had loved a
fair English girl, whom he had wooed rather by violence
than love. He carried her away from her home, a thing
too common in those lawless days to excite much comment.
She died in giving birth to a fair boy, and was buried in
the adjacent graveyard:
After he lost his other two children by leprosy, Brian
became devoted to this child ; the reader has heard how
he lost him.
And to inquire whether, perchance, the child, whose
body had never been found, yet lived, Brian first rode to
Cwichelm’s Hlawe.
“ Have I given the fruit of my body for the sin of my
soul ?” was his bitter cry. “Doth the child yet live ?”
The supposed sorceress, after incantations dire, intended
to impress the mind, replied in the affirmative.
“ But where V’
“ Beware ; the day when thou dost regain him it will
be the bitterest of thy life.”
“ But where shall he be found ? ”
ON THE DOWNS
43
“ That the dead have not told me.”
“ But they may tell.”
“ I know not, but thou shalt see him again in the flesh.
Come again in the vine-month, when the clouds of war and
rapine shall begin to gather over England once more, and
I will tell thee all I shall have learned.”
“ The clouds of war and rapine ?”
“ Yes, Brian Fitz-Count. Dost thou, the sworn ally of
the banished Empress, mistake my words ?”
And we have seen the result of that last interview — in
the second visit.
When Brian rode from the barrow — out on the open
downs — he gazed upon the beacons which yet blazed, and
sometimes shouted with exultation, for like a war-horse
he sniffed the coming battle, and shouted ha ! ha ! He
gave his horse the reins and galloped along the breezy
ridge — following the Icknield way — his hound behind him.
And then he saw another horseman approaching from
the opposite direction, just leaving the Blewbery down.
In those days when men met it was as when in a tropical
sea, in days happily gone by, sailors saw a strange sail :
the probability was that it was an enemy.
Still Brian feared not man, neither God nor man, and
only loosing his sword in its sheath, he rode proudly to
the rencontre.
“What ho ! stranger ! who? and whence ?”
“ Thy enemy from the grave, whither thou hast sent
my kith and kin.”
“ Satan take thee ; when did I slay them 1 If I did,
must I send thee to rejoin them ?”
“ Try, and God defend the right. Here on this lonely
moor, we meet face to face. Defend thyself.”
“ Ah ! I guess who thou art : an outlaw !”
“ One whom thou didst make homeless.”
“ Ah ! I see, Wulfnoth of Compton. Tell me, thou
English boar, what thou didst 'with my child.”
44
BRIAN FIT Z- COUNT
“ And if I slew him, as thou didst mine, what then 1”
A mighty blow was the reply, and the two drawing
their swords, fell to work — the deadly work.
And by their sides a canine battle took place, a wolf-
hound, which accompanied the stranger, engaged^ the boar-
hound of the Baron.
Oh ! how they strove ; how blow followed blow ; how
the horses seemed to join in the conflict, and tried to bite
and kick each other with their rampant fore -feet; how
the blades crashed ; how thrust, cut, and parry, succeeded
each other.
But Norman skill prevailed over English strength, and
the Englishman fell prone to the ground, with a frightful
wound on the right shoulder, while his horse galloped
round and round in circles.
And meanwhile the opposite result took place in the
struggle between the quadrupeds: the wolf-hound had
slain the boar-hound. Brian would fain have avenged his
favourite, but the victor avoided his pursuit, and bow and
arrows had he none, nor missile of any kind, for he had
accidentally left his hunting spear behind.
He looked at his foe who lay stretched on the turf,
bleeding profusely. Then dismounting, he asked sternly —
“Say what thou didst with my boy !”
“ Strike ; thou shalt never know.”
And Brian would have struck, but his opponent fell
back senseless, and he could not strike him in that con-
dition : something restrained his hand.
“Poor Bruno,” he said, as he gave his gallant hound
one sigh. “ Less fortunate than thy lord ; that mongrel cur
hath slain thee : but I may not stay to waste tears over
thee,” and remounting, he rode away unscathed from the
struggle, leaving the horse of the vanquished one to roam
the downs.
And as he rode, his thoughts were again on his lost
child, and on the boy whom he had seen on the previous
day, and sent before him in durance. Was it possible
ON THE DOWNS
45
this was his son 1 Nay, the old man, who would not lie to
save his life, had affirmed the contrary. Still he would
make further inquiries, and keep the lad in sight, if not
assured of his birth and parentage.
A thought struck him : should he threaten the torture
to the aged Englishman, and so strive to wring the secret
— if there were one — from him. Yet he hesitated, and
debated the question with its pros and cons again and
again, until the greater urgency of the coming struggle
extinguished all other thoughts in his mind.
He had enemies, yes, bitter ones, and now that the
dogs of war were allowed to be unchained, he would strike
a blow for himself, as well as for Maud. Why, there was
that hated rival, the Lord of Shirburne, who boasted that
he kept the Key of the Chilterns in his hand — there was
his rival of Donnington Castle over the downs — what
splendid opportunities for plunder, vainglory, and revenge.
In such meditations did the Lord of Wallingford ride
home through the forest, and adown the Moreton brook.
Meanwhile his defeated foe, upon whom the victor had
scarcely bestowed a passing thought, lay stiff and stark
upon the ground.
The night wind sang a dirge over him, but no human
being was there to see whether the breath was yet in him.
But a canine friend was there — his poor wolf hound —
mangled by the teeth of his foe, but yet alive and likely
to live And now he came up to the prostrate body of his
master and licked his face, while from time to time he
raised his nose in the air, and uttered a plaintive howl,
which floated adown the wind an appeal for help.
Was it a prayer for the living or the dead 1
Surely there were the signs of life, the hues of that
bloodless cheek are not yet those of death ; see, he stirs !
only just a stir, but it tells of life, and where there is life
there is hope.
But who shall cherish the flickering spark ?
46
BRIAN FITZ- COUNT
The aspect of nature seems all merciless. Is there
mercy yet in man 1
A faint heating of the heart ; a faint pulsation of the
wrist — it might be quickened into life.
Is it well that he should live ?
A typical Englishman, of Saxon lineage, stout, thick-
set. Did we believe in the transmigration of souls, we
should say he had been a bull in some previous state of
existence. Vast strength, great endurance, do find their
incarnations in that frame : he might have felled an ox,
but yet he went down before the subtlety of Norman
fence.
Is it good that he should live, an outlaw, whose life
any Norman may take and no questions asked 1 Look at
that arm ; it may account for many a Norman lost in
solitary wayfaring. Oh ! what memories of wrong sleep
within that insensible brain !
Happily it is for a wiser power to decide.
Listen, there is a tinkling of small bells over there in
the distance. It draws nearer; the dog gives a louder
howl — now the party is close.
Five or six horses, a sumpter mule, five or six ecclesi-
astics in sombre dress, riding the horses, the hoods drawn
back over the heads, the horses richly caparisoned, little
silver bells dependent here and there from their harness.
“ What have we here, brother Anselm 1 why doth the
dog thus howl V ’
“ There hath been a fray, brother Laurentius. Here is
a corpse ; pray for his soul.”
“ Nay, he yet liveth,” said a third, who had alighted.
“ I feel his heart beat ; he is quite warm. But, oh ! Saint
Benedict ! what a wound, what a ghastly gash across the
shoulder.”
“ Raise him on the sumpter mule ; we must bear him
home and tend him. Remember the good Samaritan.”
“ But first let me bind up the wound as well as I can,
and pour in oil and wine. I will take him before me.
ON THE DOWNS
47
Sancta Maria ! what a weight ! No, good dog, we mean
thy master no harm.”
But the dog offered no opposition ; he saw his master
was in good hands. He only tried as well as his own
wounds would let him to caper for joy.
“ Poor dog, he hath been hurt too. How chanced it ?
What a mystery.”
Happily the good brothers never travelled without
medicinal stores, and a little ointment modifies pain.
So in a short time they were on their road again,
carrying the wounded with them.
They were practical Christians, those monks.
CHAPTER VII
DORCHESTER ABBEY
The Abbey of Dorchester stood on the banks of the river
Tame, a small stream arising near the town of the same
name, and watering the finest pasture land of the county
of Oxfordshire, until, half a mile below the Abbey, it falls
into the Isis, which thence, strictly speaking, becomes the
Thames (Tamesis).
This little town of Dorchester is not unknown to fame ;
it was first a British town, then a Roman city. Destroyed
by the Saxons, it rose from its ashes to become the
Cathedral city of the West Saxons, and the scene of the
baptism of Cynegils, son of Ceol, by the hands of St. Birinus.
The see was transferred to Winchester, but afterwards it
became the seat of the great Mercian bishopric, and as its
jurisdiction had once reached the Channel, so now it ex-
tended to the Humber and the Wash.
Cruelly destroyed by the Danes, it never regained its
importance, and on account of its impoverished state,1 the
see was again removed by Remigius, the first Norman
Bishop, to Lincoln, in the year 1092. But although the
ancient city was thus deserted, the Bishop strove to make it
some amends. He took care that an abbey should be
created at Dorchester, lest the place should be ruined, or
sunk in oblivion ; and some say the Abbey was built with
the stones which came from the Bishop’s palace, the site of
which is still marked by a farm called “ Bishop’s Court.”
But the earlier buildings must have been of small extent,
1 “Quse urbs propter parvitatem Remigio displicebat. ” — John of
Brompton.
DORCHESTER ABBEY
49
for at the time of our story, Alexander, Bishop of Lincoln,
was busy with a more magnificent structure, and he had
already removed into the buildings, as yet but incomplete,
a brotherhood of Black Canons, or Augustinians, under the
rule of Abbot Alured.
The great church which had been the cathedral — the
mother church of the diocese — had been partially rebuilt in
the Norman style,1 and around stood the buildings of the
Abbey, west and north of the church.
In the scriptorium, overlooking the Tame, sat Abbot
Alured. The Chapter Mass, which followed Terce (9 A.M.),
had been said, and he was busy with the librarian,
arranging his books. Of middle stature, with dark
features, he wore an air of asceticism, tempered by an
almost feminine suavity, and his voice was soft and
winning.
He was the son of a Norman knight by an English wife,
who had brought the aforesaid warrior an ample dowry in
lands, for thus did the policy of the Conqueror attempt the
reconciliation of conflicting interests and the amalgamation
of the rival races of conquerors and conquered. For a long
time the pair were childless, until the mother — like Hannah,
whose story she had heard in church — vowed, if God
would grant her a child, to dedicate it to God. Alured
was born, and her husband, himself weary of perpetual
fighting and turmoil, allowed her to fulfil her vow. The
boy was educated at Battle Abbey, and taught monastic
discipline ; sent thence to Bee, which the fame of Lanfranc
and Anselm — both successively translated to Canterbury —
had made the most renowned school of theology in
Northern Europe. There he received the tonsure, and
passed through the usual grades, until, attracting the
attention of Bishop Alexander, during a visit of that
1 It consisted of the present nave, exclusive of the south aisle, and
extended some distance beyond the chancel arch, including the north aisle
as far as the present door. The cloister extended northward, covering
the small meadow which separates the manor-house grounds from the
church. The latter were probably the gardens of the abbey.
E
50
BRIAN FITZ- COUNT
prelate to Bee, he was selected to be the new Abbot of
Dorchester.
And now he was in the library, or scriptorium — the
chamber he loved best in his Abbey. What books, for-
sooth, had he there in those dark ages !
First there were all the books of the Old Testa-
ment in several volumes and in the Latin tongue ; then
the New Testament in three volumes ; there were all
the works of St. Augustine, in nineteen large tomes, with
most of the books of the other fathers of the Western
Church ; the lives of the great monastic Saints, and the
martyrology or acts of the Martyrs. There were books of
ecclesiastical history, and treatises on Church music, with
various liturgical works. Of light reading there was none,
but the lives of the Saints and Martyrs furnished the most
exciting reading, wherein fact was unintentionally blended
with fiction.
“ What a wonderful mine of wealth we have here in this
new martyrology ! Truly, my brethren, here we have the
patience and faith of the Saints to encourage us in our
warfare,” said the Abbot, opening a huge volume bound
in boar’s hide, and glancing round at the scribes, who,
pen in hand and ink-horn at their girdles, with clear
sheets of vellum before them, prepared to write at his
dictation.
“ This book was lent us by the Abbot of Abingdon, now
six months ago, and before Advent it must be returned
thither — not until every letter has been duly transcribed
into our new folios. Where didst thou leave off yesterday ? ”
“At the ‘Acts of St. Artemas.’”
And the Abbot read, while they wrote down his words :
“ Artemus was a Christian boy, who lived at Puteoli, and
who was sent, at the instigation of heathen relations, to the
school of one Cathageta, a heathen. But the little scholar
could not hide his faith, although bidden to do so, lest he
should suffer persecution. But what is deep in the heart
comes out of the mouth, and he converted two or three school-
DORCHESTER ABBEY
51
fellows, so that at the next festival, in honour of Diana,
they omitted to place the customary garlands on her image.
This aroused inquiry, and the young athlete of Christ was
discovered. The master, bidding him renounce his faith in
vain, severely scourged him, but the boy said : ‘ The more
you scourge me the more you whip my religion into me.’
Whereupon Cathageta, turning to the other scholars, said :
‘ Perhaps your endeavours will be more successful than
mine in wiping out this disgrace from the school;’ and he
departed, leaving him to the mercies of the other boys,
who, educated in the atrocities of the arena, stabbed him
to death with their stili or pointed iron pens.” 1
“Poor boy,” murmured the youngest copyist — himself
but a boy — when the dictation was finished.
“ Nay ; glorious Martyr, you mean. He has his reward
now. You have heard me speak of the martyrdom of St.
Euthymius ; that was a harder one. It follows here.
“ St. Euthymius was a Bishop of the African Church,
who, being taken by his persecutors, and refusing to offer
sacrifice to the idols, was shut up in a close stone cell with
a multitude of mice. A wire, attached to a bell outside,
was placed near his hand, and he was told that if he were
in distress he might ring it, and should obtain immediate
assistance ; but that his doing so would be taken as
equivalent to a renunciation of Christ. No bell was
heard, and when on the third day they opened the cell,
they found nought but a whitened skeleton and a
multitude of fattened mice.”
Every one drew in his breath, some in admiration, some
in horror.
The young novice had suspended his labours to listen.
“Benedict, you are neglecting your gradual,” said the
Abbot. “The music must be completed for the coming
festival of All Saints ; it is the chant of Fescamp — some-
what softer to our ears than the harsher Gregorian strains.
1 This true story is the foundation of The Victor's Laurel , a tale of
school life in Italy, by the same author.
52
BRIAN FI TZ- COUNT
Yet many love the latter well; as did the monks of
Glastonbury.”
Here he paused, and waited until he saw they were all
open-mouthed for his story; for such was monastic dis-
cipline, that no one ventured to say : “ Tell us the story.”
“ Well,” he said, “ the English monks of Glastonbury had
endured much unmerited severity at the hands of Thurstan,
their Norman Abbot, but they bore all, until he bade them
leave off their crude Gregorian strains, and chant the lays
of William of Fescamp. Then they stoutly refused; and
he sent for a troop of men-at-arms. The monks rushed
to the great church and barred themselves in, but the
men-at-arms forced a way into the church, and slew the
greater part of the monks with their arrows. So thick was
the storm of piercing shafts, that the image of the Christ
on the rood was stuck full of these sacrilegious missiles.”
“And what became of Thurstan?” asked one of the
elder brethren.
“The king deposed him, as unfit to rule; suggesting
that a shepherd should not flay his sheep.”
“And that was all?” said an indignant young novice,
whose features showed his English blood.
“ Hush ! my son Wilfred. Novices must hear — not
speak. Speech is silver ; silence is golden.”
At that moment the Prior made his appearance in the
doorway.
“My father Abbot, the brethren have returned from
our poor house at Hermitage, and they bring a wounded
man, whom they found on the downs.”
“ English or Norman ?”
“ The former, I believe, but he has not yet spoken.”
“ Send for the almoner and infirmarer. I will come and
look at him myself.”
Leaving the scriptorium, the Abbot traversed the
pleasant cloisters, which were full of boys, learning their
lessons under the superintendence of certain brethren —
some declining Latin nouns or conjugating verbs; some
DORCHESTER ABBEY
53
reading the scanty leaves of parchment which served as
lesson books, more frequently repeating passages viva voce
after a master, while seated upon rude forms, or more
commonly standing. So were the cloisters filled— the
only schools for miles around. They looked upon an
inner quadrangle of the monastery, with the great church
to the south. Passing through a passage to the west of
the nave, the Abbot reached the gateway of the abbey,
somewhere near the site of the present tower, which is
modern. The view to the south from this point stretched
across the Thames to Synodune ; nearer at hand rose to
left and right the towers of two parish churches,1 the
buildings of the town (or city, as it had hitherto been),
poor and straggling as compared with the ecclesiastical
dwellings, lay before them ; the embankment of the Dyke
hills then terminated the town in this direction, and
beyond rose the stately clumps of Synodune.
Inside the porch rested the wayfarers ; their beasts had
been led to the stables, and on a sort of hand-bier before
them, resting on tressels, lay the prostrate form of the
victim of the prowess of Brian Fitz-Count.
“Where didst thou find him ?” asked the Abbot.
“ Near the spot on the downs where once holy Birinus
preached the Evangel.”
“And this dog ?”
“ Was with him, wounded by teeth as the master by
sword. It was his moans and howls which attracted us.”
The Abbot bent over the prostrate form.
“ Has he spoken since you found him ?”
“ No, my lord ; only moans and gasps.”
“I see he is much hurt ; I fear you have only brought
him hither to die.”
“Houselled, anointed and annealed?”
1 Leland thus marks their site — three in all besides the abbey church
— one a little by south from the abbey, near the bridge ; one more south
above it (nearer the Dyke) ; and “ there was the 3 Paroch Chirch by
south-west ” (towards Wittenham).
54
BRIAN FITZ-COUNT
“ If he recover his senses sufficiently.”
Just then a moan, louder than before, made them all
start, then followed a deep, hollow, articulate voice.
“ Where am I ?”
“ At the Abbey of Dorchester.”
“ Who brought me hither ?”
“ Friends.”
He gazed wildly round, then sank with a deep groan
back on the bier.
“Take him to the infirmary, and on the morrow we
will see him.”
A chance medley on the downs — a free fight between
two who met by chance — was so common, that the Abbot
thought far less of the matter than we may imagine.
“Insooth, he is ghastly,” he said, “but in the more
need of our aid. I trust we shall save both soul and body.
Let the dog also have food and shelter.”
But the dog would not leave his master’s side, and they
were forced to move both into the same cell, where the
poor beast kept licking the hand which dropped pendent
from the couch.
“My lord Abbot, there are weightier matters to
consider than the welfare of one poor wounded wayfarer,
who has fallen among thieves.”
“What are they ?”
“ Didst thou mark the bale-fire on Synodune last night?”
“We did, and marvelled what it could mean.”
“ They were lighted all over the country : Lowbury,
Highclere, White Horse, Shirburne Beacon — all sent their
boding flames heavenward.”
“ What does it portend ?”
“ There were rumours that Matilda, the Empress Queen,
had landed somewhere in the south.”
“ Then we shall have civil war, and every man’s hand
will be against his brother, which God forbid. Yet when
Stephen seized our worthy Bishop in his chamber, eating
his dinner of pulse and water ”
DORCHESTER ABBEY
55
“ Pheasant, washed down with malmsey, more likely,”
muttered a voice.
The Abbot heard not, but continued —
“And shut him in a dungeon — the anointed of the
Lord — and half starved him ”
“Making him fast for once, in earnest !”
“ Until he should deliver his castles of Newark and
Sleaford ”
“Pretty sheepfolds for a shepherd to keep !”
“ Such a king has little hold of his people ; and it may
be, God’s just judgments are impending over us. And
what shall we do if we cannot save the poor sheep
committed to our charge ; for be the one party or the other
victorious, the poor will have to suffer. Therefore, my
dear brethren, after Sext, we will hold a special chapter
before we take our meridiana ” (noontide nap, necessitated
when there was so much night rising), “ and consider what
we had best do. Haste ye, my brother Ambrose ; take
thy party to the cellarer, and get some light refreshment.
This is the day when he asks pardon of us all for his little
negligencies, and in return for the Miserere we sing in his
name, we get a better refection than usual. So do not
spoil your appetites now. Haste, and God be with you.
The sacristan has gone to toll the bell for Sext.”
CHAPTER VIII
THE BARON AND HIS PRISONERS
When Brian Fitz- Count returned to his castle it was
buried in the silence and obscurity of night; only the
sentinels were awake, and as they heard his password,
they hastened to unbar the massive gates, and to undraw
the heavy bolts, and turn the ponderous keys which gave
admittance to his sombre castle.
The fatigue of a long day had made even the strong
man weary, and he said nought to any man, but sought
his inner chamber, threw himself on his pallet, and there
the man of strife slept, for he had the soldier’s faculty of
snatching a brief nap in the midst of perplexity and toil.
In vain did the sentinels look for some key to the
meaning of the bale-fires, which had blazed all round ;
their lord was silent. “ The smiling morn tipped the
hills with gold,” and the reveilUe blew loud and long ;
the busy tide of life began to flow within the walls ; men
buckled on their armour, to try if every rivet were tight ;
tried the edge of their swords, tested the points of their
lances ; ascended the towers and looked all round for
signs of a foe ; discussed, wondered, argued, quarrelled of
course, but all without much result, until, at the hour of
dtjeHner (or breakfast), their dread lord appeared, and
took his usual place at the head of the table in the great
hall.
The meal — a substantial one of flesh, fish, and fowl,
washed down by ale, mead and wine — was eaten amid the
subdued murmur of many voices, and not till it was ended,
THE BARON AND HIS PRISONERS
57
and the Chaplain had returned thanks — for such forms
did Brian, for policy’s sake, if for no better motive, always
observe — than he rose up to his full height and spoke —
“Knights and pages, men-at-arms all! I have good
news for you ! The Empress — our rightful Queen — has
landed in Sussex, and this very day I go to meet her, and
to aid in expelling the fell usurper Stephen. Who will
follow in my train ? ”
Every hand was upraised, amidst a clamour of voices
and cheers, for they sniffed the battle afar, like the war-
horse in Job, and delighted like the vulture in the scent
of blood.
“It is well. I would sooner have ten free-hearted
volunteers than a hundred lagging retainers, grudgingly
fulfilling their feudal obligations. Let every man see to
his horse, armour, sword, shield, and lance, and at noon-
tide we will depart.”
“ At what time,” asked the Chaplain, “ shall we have
the special Mass said, to evoke God’s blessing on our
efforts to dethrone the tyrant, who has dared to imprison
our noble Bishop, Alexander ? ”
“ By all means a Mass, it will sharpen our swords : say
at nine — a hunting Mass, you know.” (That is, a Mass
reduced to the shortest proportions the canons allowed.)
When the household had dispersed, all save the chief
officers who waited to receive their lord’s orders about the
various matters committed severally to their charge, Brian
called one of them aside.
“ Malebouche, bid Coupe-gorge, the doomster, be ready
with his minions in the torture-chamber, and take thither
the old man whom we caught in the woods yestere’en. I
will be present myself, and give orders what is to be done,
in half an hour.”
Malebouche departed on the errand, and Brian hastened
to accomplish various necessary tasks, ere the time to
which he looked forward with some interest arrived. It
came at last, and he descended a circular stone staircase
58
BRIAN FI TZ- COUNT
in the interior of the north-west tower, which seemed to
lead into the bowels of the earth.
Rather into a vaulted chamber, curiously furnished
with divers chains and pulleys, and hooks, and pincers,
and other quaint instruments of mediaeval cruelty. In one
corner hung a thick curtain, which concealed all behind
from view.
In the centre there was a heavy wooden table, and at
the head a massive rude chair, wherein the Baron seated
himself.
Before the table stood the prisoner — the aged Sexwulf
— still preserving his composure, and gazing with serene
eye upon the fierce Baron — the ruthless judge, in whose
hands was his fate.
Two lamps suspended from the roof shed a lurid light
upon the scene.
“Sexwulf, son of Thurkill, hearken, and thou, Malebouche,
retire up the stairs, and wait my orders on the landing
above.”
“ My lord, the tormentor is behind the curtain,”
whispered Malebouche, as he departed.
Brian nodded assent, but did not think fit to order the
departure of the doomster, whose horrible office made him
familiar with too many secrets, wrung from the miserable
victims of his art, and who was, like a confessor, pledged
to inviolable secrecy. A grim confessor he !
“Now, old man,” said the Baron, “I am averse to
wring the truth from the stammering lips of age. Answer
me, without concealment, the truth — the whole truth ! ”
“ I have nought to conceal.”
“ Whose son is the boy I found in thy care ?”
“ My daughter’s son.”
“ Who was his father 1”
“ Wulfnoth of Compton.”
“ Now thou liest ; his features proclaim him Norman.”
“ He has no Norman blood.”
“ And thou dost persist in this story 1”
THE BARON AND HIS PRISONERS
59
“ I have none other to tell.”
“Then I must make the tormentor find thee speech.
What ho ! Coupe-gorge ! ”
The curtain was drawn back with a clang, and revealed
the rack and a brasier, containing pincers heated to a gray-
heat, and a man in leathern jerkin with a pendent mask of
black leather, with two holes cut therein for the eyes, and
two assistants similarly attired — one a black man, or very
swarthy Moor.
The old man did not turn his head.
“ Look,” said Brian.
“ Why should I look ? I have told thee the very truth;
I have nought to alter in my story. If thou dost in thy
cruelty misuse the power which God has given thee, and
rend me limb from limb, I shall soon be beyond thy cruelty.
But I can tell thee nought.”
“We will see,” said Brian. “Place him on the
rack 1”
“It needs not force,” said the aged Englishman. “I
will walk to thy bed of pain,” and he turned to do so.
Again this calm courage turned Brian.
“ Man,” he said, “ thou wouldst not lie before to save
thy life ; nor now, I am convinced, to save thy quivering
flesh, if it does quiver. Tell me what thou hast to tell,
without being forced to do so.”
“ I will. Thou didst once burn a house at Compton —
the house of Wulfnoth.”
“ I remember it too well. The churl would not pay me
tribute.”
“ Tribute to whom tribute is due,” muttered the aged
one ; then, aloud, “ One child escaped the flames, in which
my daughter and her other poor children perished. A few
days afterwards the father, who had escaped, brought me
this child and bade me rear it, in ignorance of the fate of
kith and kin, while he entered upon the life of a hunted
but destroying wolf, slaying Normans.”
“ And he said the boy was his own ?”
60
BRIAN FITZ- COUNT
“ And why should he not be ? He has my poor
daughter’s features in some measure, I have thought.”
“ She must have been lovely, then,” thought Brian, but
only said —
“ Tormentor, throw aside thy implements ; they are for
cowards. Old man, ere thou ascend the stairs, know that
thy life depends upon thy grandson. Canst thou spare
him to me V ’
“ Have I any choice 9”
“Nay. But wilt thou bid him enter my service, and
perchance win his spurs 9”
“Not for worlds.”
“Why refuse so great an opening to fame ?”
“ I would sooner far follow him to his grave ! Thou
wouldst destroy the soul.”
“ Fool ! has he a soul 9 Have I or you got one ? What
is it? I do not know.” Then he repressed these dangerous
words — dangerous to himself, even in his stronghold.
“ Malebouche ! ”
Malebouche appeared.
“ Take the grandsire away. Bring hither the boy.”
He waited in a state of intense but subdued feeling.
The boy appeared at last — pale, not quite so free from
apprehension as his grandsire : how could any one expect a
real boy, unless he were a phenomenon, to enter a torture
chamber as a prisoner without emotion? What are all
the switchings, birchings, and canings modern boys have
borne, compared with rack, pincer, and thumbscrew — to
the hideous sachentage, the scorching iron ? The very
enumeration makes the hair rise in these days ; only they
are but a memory from the grim bad past now.
“ Osric, whose son art thou ?”
“ The son of Wulfnoth.”
“And who was thy mother?”
The boy flushed.
“ I know not — save that she is dead.”
“ Does thy father live ?”
THE BARON AND HIS PRISONERS
61
“ I know not.”
“Art thou English or Norman?”
“ English.”
“ Thou art not telling the truth.”
“Not the truth !” cried the boy, evidently surprised.
“No, and I must force it from thee.”
“■Force it from me !” stammered the poor lad.
“Look!”
Again the curtain opened, and the grisly sight met the
eyes of Osric. He winced, then seemed to make a great effort
at self-control, and at last spoke with tolerable calmness —
“My lord, I have nought to tell if thou pull me in
pieces. What should I hide, and why ? I have done thee
no harm ; why shouldst thou wish to torture me — a poor
helpless boy, who never harmed thee ?”
The Baron gazed at him with a strange expression.
“ Thou knowest thou art in my hands, to do as I please
with thee.”
“ But God will protect or avenge me.”
“ And this is all thou hast to say ? Dost thou not fear
the rack, the flame ?”
“Who can help fearing it?”
“ Wouldst thou lie to escape it?”
“ No, God helping me. That is, I would do my best.”
The Baron drew a long breath. There was something
in the youth which fascinated him. He loved to hear him
speak ; he revelled in the tones of his voice ; he even liked
to see the contest between his natural courage and truthful-
ness and the sense of fear. But he could protract it no
longer, because it pained while it pleased.
“ Boy, wilt thou enter my service ?”
“ I belong to my grandsire.”
“ Wouldst thou not wish to be a knight ?”
“ Nay, unless I could be a true knight.”
“ What is that ?”
“ One who keeps his vow to succour the oppressed, and
never draw sword save in the cause of God and right.”
62
BRIAN F IT Z- COUNT
Again the Baron winced.
“Wilt thou be my page ?”
“No.”
Brian looked at him fixedly.
“Thou must!”
“Why ?”
“Thy life is forfeit to the laws; it is the only avenue
of escape.”
“ Then must I die.”
“ Wouldst thou sooner die than follow me?”
“ I think so ; I do not quite know.”
“And thy grandsire, too? Ye are both deer-stealers,
and I have hanged many such.”
“Oh, not my grandsire — not my poor grandfather!”
and the boy knelt down, and raised his hands joined in
supplication. “ Hang me, if thou wilt, but spare him.”
“ My boy, neither shalt hang, if thou wilt but hear me
— be my page, and he shall be free to return to his hut,
with permission to kill one deer per month, and smaller
game as he pleases.”
“And if I will not promise ?”
“ Thou must rot in a dungeon till my return, when I
will promise thou wilt be glad to get out at any price, and
lie must hang to-day — and thou wilt know thou art his
executioner.”
The boy yielded.
“ I must give way. Oh ! must I be thy page ?”
“Yes, foolish boy — a good thing for thee, too.”
“If I must, I will — but only to save his life. God
forgive me ! ”
“ God forgive thee ? For what ?”
“For becoming a Norman !”
“ Malebouche ! ” called Brian.
The seneschal descended.
“ Take this youth to the wardrobe, and fit him with a
page’s suit ; he rides with me to-day. Feed the old man,
and set him free.”
THE BATON AND HIS PRISONERS
63
He sent for Alain, the chief and leader amongst his
pages — a sort of cock of the walk.
“ Alain, that English boy we found in the woods rides
with us to-day. Mark me, neither tease, nor bully him
thyself, nor allow thy fellows to do so. Thou knowest
that I will be obeyed.”
“ My lord,” said the lad, “ I will do my best. What is
the name of our new companion V*
“ ‘ Fitz-urse ’ — that is enough.”
“I should say Fitz-daim,” muttered the youngster, as
soon as he was outside.
CHAPTER IX
THE LEPERS
The scene was the bank of a large desolate pond or small
lake in Northamptonshire. It was on high table-land, for
the distant country might be seen through openings in the
pine-trees on every side : here and there a church tower,
here and there a castle or embattled dwelling ; here and
there a poverty-stricken assemblage of huts, clustering to-
gether for protection. In the south extended the valley of
the Cherwell, towards the distant Thames ; on the west the
high table-land of North Oxfordshire sank down into the
valley of the Avon and Severn.
It was a cold windy autumnal morning, the ground yet
crisp from an early frost, the leaves hung shivering on the
trees, waiting for the first bleak blast of the winter wind to
fetch them down to rot with their fellows.
On the edge of a pond stood two youths of some fifteen
and thirteen years. They had divested themselves of their
upper garments — thick warm tunics — and gazed into the
water, here deep, dark, and slimy. There was a look of
fixed resolution, combined with hopeless despair, in their
faces, which marked the would-be suicides.
They raised their pale faces, their eyes swollen with
tears, to heaven.
“0 God,” said the elder one, “and ye, ye Saints — if
Saints there be — take the life I can bear no longer : better
trust to your mercies than those of man — better Purgatory,
nay, Hell, than earth. Come, Richard, the rope ! ”
The younger one was pale as death, but as resolved as
THE LEPERS
65
the elder. He took up a rope, which he had thrown upon
the grass, and gave it mechanically, with hands that yet
trembled, to his brother.
“ One kiss, Evroult — the last !”
They embraced each other fervently.
“ Let us commend ourselves to God ; He will not be
hard upon us, if He is as good as the Chaplain says — He
knows it all.”
And they wound the rope around them, so as to bind
both together.
“We shall not be able to change our minds, even if the
water be cold, and drowning hard.”
The younger shivered, but did not falter in his resolution.
What mental suffering he must have gone through ; for the
young naturally cling to life.
But the dread secret was all too visible.
From the younger boy two fingers had fallen off — rotted
away with the disease. The elder had a covering over the
cheek, a patch, for the leprosy had eaten through it. There
was none of the spring and gladness of childhood or youth
in either ; they carried the tokens of decay with them.
They had the sentence of physical death in themselves.
Now they stood tottering on the brink. The wind
sighed hoarsely around them ; a raven gave an ominous
croak-croak, and flew flapping in the air. One moment —
and they leapt together.
There was a great splash.
Was all over 1
No ; one had seen them, and had guessed their intent,
and now arrived panting and breathless on the brink, with
a long rope, terminated by a large iron hook, in his hand.
Behind him came a second individual in a black cassock,
but he had girded up his loins to run the better.
The man threw the rope just as the bodies rose to the
surface — it missed and they disappeared once more. He
watched — a moment of suspense — again they rose; he threw
once more. Would the hook catch ? Yes ; it is entangled
F
66
BRIAN FI TZ- COUNT
in the cord with which they have bound themselves, and
they are saved ! It is an easy task now to draw them to
the land.
“ My children ! my children ! ” said the Chaplain, “ why
have ye attempted self-murder ; to rush unsummoned into
the presence of your Judge ? Had we not been here ye
had gone straight to eternal misery.”
The boys struggled on the shore, but the taste of the cold
water had tamed them. The sense of suffocation was yet
upon them ; they could not speak, but their immersion was
too brief to have done them much harm, and after a few
minutes they were able to walk. No other words were
said, and their rescuers led them towards a low building
of stone.
It was a building of great extent — a quadrangle enclos-
ing half an acre, with an inner cloister running all round.
In the centre rose a simple chapel of stern Norman archi-
tecture ; opening upon the cloister were alternate doors and
unglazed windows, generally closed by shutters, in the
centre of which was a thin plate of horn, so that when the
weather necessitated their use, the interiors might not be
quite destitute of light. On one side of the square was
the dining-hall, on the other the common room ; these had
rude cavernous chimneys, and fires were kindled on the
hearths ; there was no upper story. In each of the
smaller chambers was a central table and three or four rough
wooden bedsteads.
In the cloisters were scores of hapless beings, men and
boys, some lounging about, some engaged in games now
long forgotten ; some talking and gesticulating loudly.
All races which were found in England had their represent-
atives— the Norman, the Saxon, the Celt.
It was the recreation hour, for they were not left in
idleness through the day ; the community was mainly self-
supporting. Men wrought at their own trades, made their
own clothes and shoes, baked their own bread, brewed
their own beer, worked in the fields and gardens within
THE LEPERS
67
the outer enclosure. The charity of the outside world did
the rest, upon condition that the lepers never strayed
beyond their precincts to infect the outer world of health.
The Chaplain, himself also enclosed, belonged to an
order of brethren who had devoted themselves to this
special work throughout Europe — they nearly always took
the disease.1 Father Ambrose quite understood, when
he entered upon his self-imposed task, that he would
probably die of the disease himself, but neither priests,
physicians, nor sisters were ever wanting to fulfil the law
of Christ in ministering to their suffering brethren, re-
membering His words : “ Inasmuch as ye have done it to
the least of these My brethren, ye have done it unto Me.”
The day was duly divided : there was the morning
Mass, the service of each of the “ day hours ” in the chapel,
the hours of each meal, the time of recreation, the time of
work; all was fixed and appointed in due rotation, and
could the poor sufferers only have forgotten the world, and
resigned themselves to their sad fate, they were no worse
off than the monks in many a monastery.
But the hideous form of the disease was always there ;
here an arm in a sling, to hide the fact the hand was gone ;
1 The disease of leprosy has been deemed incurable, and so practically
it was ; but it was long before it proved fatal ; it ordinarily ran its course
in a period not less than ten, nor exceeding twenty, years.
The first symptoms were not unlike those of malarious disease ; perhaps
leprosy was not so much contagious as endemic, bred of foul waters, or the
absence of drainage, or nourished in stagnant marshes ; but all men
deemed it highly contagious.
The distinctive symptoms which next appeared were commonly reddish
spots on the limbs ; these by degrees extended, until, becoming white as
snow in the centre, they resembled rings ; then the interior became
ulcerous, and as the ulcer ate into the flesh, the latter presented the
tuberous or honey -combed appearance which led to the disease being
called leprosa tuberosa. Especially did the disease affect the joints of
the fingers, the wrists, and the elbows ; and limbs would sometimes fall
away — or “slough off,” as it is technically called.
By degrees it spread inward, and attacking the vital organs, particularly
the digestive functions, the sufferer died, not so much from the primary
as from the secondary effects of the disease — from exhaustion and
weakness.
68
BRIAN FIT Z- COUNT
here a footless man, here an eyeless one ; here a noseless
one, there another — like poor Evroult — with holes through
the cheek ; here the flesh livid with red spots or circles
enclosing patches white as snow — so they carried the
marks of the most hideous disease of former days.
Generally they were the objects of pity, but also of
abhorrence and dread. The reader will hardly believe
that in France, in the year 1341, the lepers were actually
burnt alive throughout the land, in the false plea that they
poisoned the waters, really in the cruel hope to stamp out
the disease.1
Outside the walls were all the outhouses, workshops,
and detached buildings, also an infirmary for the worst
cases ; within the enclosure also the last sad home when
the fell destroyer had completed his work — the graveyard,
God’s acre ; and in the centre rose a huge plain cross,
with the word Pax on the steps.
It was a law of the place that no one who entered on
any pretence might leave it again : people did not believe
in cures ; leprosy was incurable — at least save by a miracle,
as when the Saviour trod this weary world.
The Chaplain took the poor boys to his own chamber,
a little room above the porch of the chapel, containing a
bed, over which hung the crucifix, a chair, a table, and a
few MS. books, a gospel, an epistle, a prophetical book,
the offices, church services ; little more.
He made them sit in the embrasure of the window, he
did not let them speak until he had given each a cup of
hot wine, they sat sobbing there a long time, he let nature
have its way. At length the time came and he spoke.
“Evroult, my dear child, Richard,* how could you attempt
self-murder ? Know you not that your lives are God’s, and
that you may not lay them down at your own pleasure.”
“ Oh, father, why did you save us ? It would have
been all over now.”
“And where would you have been?”
1 Chronicle of St. Evroult in loco.
THE LEPERS
69
The boy shuddered. The teaching about Hell, and the
horrors of the state of the wicked dead, was far too literal
and even coarsely material, at that time, for any one to
escape its influence.
“ Better a thousand times to be here, only bear up till
God releases you, and He will make up for all this. You
will not think of the billows past when you gain the shore.”
“ But, father, anything is better than this — these horrid
sights, these dreadful faces, and my father a baron.”
“ Thou art saved many sins,” said and felt the priest ;
“ war is a dreadful thing, strife and bloodshed would have
been thy lot.”
“ But I loved to hunt, to fight ; I long to be a man, a
knight, to win a name in the world, to win my spurs.
Oh, what shall I do, how can I bear this1?”
“ And do you feel like this, Richard,” said the priest,
addressing the younger boy.
“ Indeed I do, how can I help it ? Oh, the green woods,
the baying of the hounds, the delightful gallop, the sweet,
fresh air of our Berkshire downs, the hall on winter nights,
the gleemen and their songs, their stories of noble deeds
of prowess, the ”
“And the tilt-yard, the sword and the lance, the
tournament, the meUe ,” added the other.
“ And Evroult, so brave and expert ; oh what a knight
thou wouldst have made, my brother.”
“ And our father loved to see us wrestle and fight, and
ride, and jump, and called us his brave boys ; and our mother
was proud of us — oh, how can we bear the loss of all ?”
What could be said : nature was too strong, the
instincts of generations were in the boys, the blood of the
sea-kings of old ran in their veins.
“ Oh, can you not help us ? we know you are kind ;
shall we never get out? is there no hope ?”
The tears streamed down the venerable man’s cheeks.
“We know you love us or you would not be here ;
they say you came of your own accord.”
70
BRIAN FI TZ- COUNT
He glanced at a glowing circle of red on his right
hand, encircling a spot of leprous flesh as white as snow.
“Ah, my dear hoys,” he said, “I had your feelings
once ; nay, I was a knight too, and had wife and children.”
“ Do they live ?”
“Yes, but not here ; a neighbour, Eobert de Belesme,
you may have heard of him ”
“As a cruel monster, a wicked knight.”
“ Stormed my castle in my absence, and burnt it with
all therein.”
“And did you not avenge them?”
“ I was striving to do so, when the hand of God was
laid upon me, and I woke from a burning fever to learn
that He has said, ‘Vengeance is Mine, I will repay.’”
“And then?”
“I came here.”
“ Poor Father Ambrose,” said Eichard.
“ If I could get out I would try to avenge him,” said
Evroult.
“ The murderer has gone before his Judge ; leave it,”
said the priest ; “ there the hidden things shall be made
clear, my boys, noblesse oblige, the sons of a baron should
keep their word.”
“ Have we ever broken it ?”
“Not so far as I am aware, and I am sure you will not
now.”
“ What are we to promise ?”
“ Promise me you will not strive to destroy yourselves
again.”
They looked at each other.
“It is cowardly, unworthy of gentlemen.”
“ Cowardly /” and the hot blood rose in their faces.
“Base cowardice.”
“ None ever called me coward before ; but you are a
priest.”
“ My children, will you not promise ? Then you shall
not be confined as you otherwise must be ”
THE LEPERS
71
“ Let them confine us ; we can dash our heads against
the walls ! ”
“ For my sake, then; they hurt me when they hurt you.”
They paused, looked at each other, and sighed.
“Yes, Evroult ?” said Richard.
“ Yes, be it then, father ; we promise.”
But there was another thought in Evroult’s mind which
he did not reveal.
The bell then rang for chapel, but we fear the boys did
not take more than their bodies there ; and when they
were alone in their own little chamber — for they were
treated with special distinction (their father “ subscribed
liberally to the charity ”) — the hidden purpose came out.
“ Richard,” said Evroult, “ we must escape.”
“ What shall we do ? where can we go ?”
“To Wallingford.”
“ But our father will slay us.”
“ Not he ; he loves us too well. We shall recover then.
Old Bartimoeus here told me many do recover when they
get away, and live, as some do, in the woods. It is all
infection here ; besides, I must see our mother again, if it
is only once more — must see her, I long for her so.”
“ But do you not know that the country people would
slay us.”
“ They are too afraid of the disease to seize us.”
“ But they keep big dogs — mastiffs, and would hunt us
if they knew we were outside.”
“We must escape in the night.”
“ The gates are barred and watched.”
“ A chance will come some evening, at the last hour of
recreation before dark, we will hide in the bushes, and as
soon as the others go in make for the wall ; we can easily
get over ; now, Richard, are you willing ?”
“ Yes,” said the younger, who always looked up to his
elder brother with great belief, “I am willing, but do not
make the attempt yet ; let us wait a day or two ; we are
watched and suspected now.”
CHAPTER X
THE NEW NOVICE
It was the day of St. Calixtus, the day on which, seventy-
three years earlier in the history of England, the Normans
had stormed the heights of Senlac, and the brave Harold
had bitten the dust in the agonies of death with the
despairing cry, “Alas for England.”
Of course it was ever a high day with the conquering
race, that fourteenth of October, and the reader will not
be surprised that it was observed with due observance at
Dorchester Abbey, and that special thanksgiving for the
victory was offered at the chapter Mass, which took place
at nine of the clock.
Abbot Alured had just divested himself of the gorgeous
vestments, in which he had officiated at the high altar,
when the infirmarer craved an audience — it was granted.
“ The wounded guest has partially recovered, his fever
has abated, his senses have returned, and he seems anxious
to see thee.”
“Why does he wish to see me particularly?”
“ Because he has some secret to communicate.”
“ And why not to thee ?”
“ I know not, save that he knows that thou art our
father.”
“ Dost think he will ever fight again ?”
“ He will lay lance in rest no more in this world.”
“Nor in the next either, I presume, brother. I will
arise and see him.”
Passing through the cloister — which was full of the
THE NEW NOVICE
73
hum of boys, like busy bees, learning their tasks — and
ascending a flight of steps to the “ dorture ,” the Abbot
followed the infirmarer to a pleasant and airy cell, full of
the morning sunlight, which streamed through the panes
of thin membrane — such as frequently took the place of
glass.
There on a couch lay extended the form of the victim
of the prowess of Brian Fitz - Count, his giant limbs
composed beneath the coverlet, his face seamed with many
a wrinkle and furrow, and marked with deep lines of care,
his eyes restless and wandering.
“Thou hast craved to speak with me, my son,” said
Abbot Alured.
“ Alone,” was the reply, in a deep hoarse voice.
“ My brother, leave us till I touch the bell,” said the
Abbot, pointing to a small handbell which stood on the
table.
The infirmarer departed.
“ And now, my son, what hast thou to tell me ? First,
who art thou 1 and whence ?”
“ I am in sanctuary here, and none can drag me hence ;
is it not so ?”
“ It is, my son, unless thou hast committed such crime
as sacrilege, which God forbid.”
“Such crime can none lay to my charge. Tell me,
father, dost thou think it wrong for a man to slay those
who have deprived him of his loved ones, of all that made
life worth living ?”
“‘Vengeance is Mine,’ saith God.”
“Well, I took mine into my own hand, and now my
task is ended. I am assured that I am a cripple, never
to strike a fair blow again.”
“ The more time for repentance, the better for thy soul.
Thou hast not yet told me thy name and home ?”
“ I tell it thee in confidence, for thou wilt not betray
me to mine enemy.”
“ Not unless justice should demand it.”
74
BRIAN FITZ- COUNT
“Well, I will tell thee my tale first. I was a husband
and a father, and a happy one, living in a home on the
downs. In consequence of some paltry dispute about
black-mail or feudal dues, Brian Fitz-Count sent men who
burnt my house in my absence, and my wife and children
perished in the flames.”
“All!”
“Yes, I found not one alive, so I took to the life of a
hunted wolf, rending and destroying, and slew many
foreigners, for I am Wulfnoth of Compton ; now I have
told thee all.”
“God’s mercy is infinite, thy provocation was indeed
great. I judge thee not, poor man. I never had wife or
child, but I can guess how they feel who have had and
lost them. My brother, thine has been a sad life, thy
misery perhaps justified, at least, excused thy life as a
leader of outlaws ; I, who am a man in whose veins flows
the blood of both races, can feel for thee, and pardon thy
errors.”
“Errors ! to avenge her and them.”
“The Saviour forgave His murderers, and left us an
example that we should follow His steps. Listen, my
brother, thou must live for repentance, and to learn
submission to God’s will ; tell thy secret to no man, lest
thy foe seek thee even here, and trouble our poor house.”
“ But I hoped to have seen him bite the dust.”
“ And God has denied thee the boon ; he is a man of
strife and blood, and no well-wisher to Holy Church ; he
seldom hears a Mass, never is shriven, at least, so I have
been told in confidence, for in this neighbourhood men
speak with bated breath of Brian Fitz-Count, at least
within sight of the tall tower of his keep. We will leave
him to God. He is a most unhappy man ; his children
are lepers.”
“No, at least not one.”
“ So I have heard ; they are in the great Leper House
at Byfield, poor boys ; my cousin is the Chaplain there.”
THE NEW NOVICE
75
“ And now, father, I will tell thee more. Thou knowest
I have been delirious, yet my senses have been awake to
other scenes than these. Methought my dear wife came
to me in my delirium, came to my bedside, sat in that seat,
bathed my fevered brow, nay, it was no dream, her blest
spirit was allowed to resume the semblance of throbbing
flesh, and there she sat, where thou sittest now.”
The Abbot of course saw in this only a phase of delirium,
but he said nought ; it was at least better than visions of
imps and goblins.
“Alas, dear one,” continued he, as in a soliloquy, “hadst
thou lived, I had not made this life one savage hunting
scene, caring only to rush in, knock down, and drag out
the prey, and now I am unfit to be where thou art, and may
never meet thee again.”
“My brother,” said the sympathising Alured, “thou
believest her to be in Paradise ?”
“I do, indeed ; I know they are there.”
“ And thou wouldst fain meet them ? ”
“ I would.”
“ Repent then, confess, thou shall be loosed from thy
sins ; and since thou art unfitted for the active walks of life,
take upon thee the vows of religion.”
“ May I ? what order would admit me ? ”
“We will ; and thus strive to restore thee to thy dear
ones again.”
“And Brian Fitz-Count will escape?”
“Leave him to God.”
“Well, I will; doubtless he will die and be damned,
and we shall never see him ; Heaven would not be Heaven
if he were there.”
The Abbot sighed.
“Ah, brother, thou hast much yet to learn ere thou
becomest a true follower of Him, Who at the moment of
His supremest agony prayed for His murderers.”
But the patient could bear no more, hot tears were
streaming down his cheeks.
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BRIAN FITZ-COUNT
“ Brother, peace be with thee, from the Lord of peace, all
good Saints aid thee ; say nought of this to any one but me
and thon wilt be safe.”
He touched the bell, the infirmarer came in.
“God hath touched his heart, he will join our order;
as soon as possible he shall take the vows of a novice and
assume our garb, then neither Brian Fitz-Count nor any
other potentate, not the king himself, can drag him forth.”
The last words were uttered in a sort of soliloquy, the
infirmarer, for whom they were not meant, did not catch
them.
And so the days sped on towards the Feast of All Saints,
darkening days and long nights too, often reddened by the
light of distant conflagrations, for that terrible period of
civil strife — nay, of worse than civil strife — was approach-
ing, when, instead of there being only two parties in the
land, each castle was to become its own centre of strife —
declaring war upon all its neighbours ; when men should
fear to till the land for others to reap ; when every man’s
hand should be against every man ; when men should fill
their strongholds with human devils, and torture for torture
sake, when there was no longer wealth to exact ; when men
should say that God and His Saints were asleep — to such
foul misery and distress did the usurpation of Stephen bring
the land.
But those days were only beginning, as yet the tidings
reached Dorchester slowly that the Empress was the guest
of her mother-in-law, the Queen -Dowager, the widow of
Henry the First, at Arundel Castle, in Sussex, under the
protection of only a hundred and forty horsemen ; then,
that Bobert, Earl of Gloucester, leaving his sister in com-
parative safety, had proceeded through the hostile country
to Bristol with only twelve horsemen, until he was joined
midway on his journey by Brian Fitz-Count and his troop
from Wallingford Castle ; next, that Henry, Bishop of
Winchester, and brother of the king, had declared for her,
THE NEW NOVICE
77
and brought her in triumph to Bristol. Lastly, that she
had been conducted by her old friend, Milo, Sheriff of
Gloucester, in triumph to that city, and there received the
allegiance of the citizens.
Meanwhile, the storm of fire and sword had begun;
wicked men took advantage at once of the divided state of
the realm, and the eclipse of the royal authority.
They heard at Dorchester that Kobert Fitz- Hubert, a
savage baron, or rather barbarian, had clandestinely entered
the city of Malmesbury and burnt it to the ground, so
that divers of the wretched inhabitants perished in the
flames, of which the barbarian boasted as though he had
obtained a great triumph, declaring himself on the side of
the Empress Queen ; and, further, that King Stephen, hear-
ing of the deed, had come after him, put him to flight, and
retaken Malmesbury Castle.
So affairs progressed up to the end of October.
It was All Saints’ Day, and they held high service at
Dorchester Abbey ; the Chant of William of Fescamp was
introduced, without any of the dire consequences which
followed it at Glastonbury.
It was a day never to be forgotten by our reclaimed
outlaw, Wulfnoth of Compton, he was that day admitted
to the novitiate, and received the tonsure ; dire had been
the conflict in his mind ; again and again the old Adam
waxed strong within him, and he longed to take advantage,
like others, of the political disturbances, in the hope of
avenging his own personal wrongs ; then the sweet teach-
ings of the Gospel softened his heart, and again and again
his dear ones seemed in his dreams to visit him, and bid
him prepare for that haven of peace into which they had
entered.
“God hath done all things well,” the sweet visitants of
his dreams seemed to say ; “let the past be the past, and
let not its black shadow darken the glorious future — the
parting was terrible, the meeting shall be the sweeter.”
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BRIAN FIT Z- COUNT
The ceremony was over, Wulfnoth of Compton had
become the Novice Alphege of Dorchester, for, in accordance
with custom, he had changed his name on taking the vows.
After the long ceremony was over, he sat long in the
church undisturbed, a sensation of sweet peace came upon
him, of rest at last found, the throbbing heart seemed
quiet, the stormy passions stilled.
And now, too, he no longer needed the protection of
carnal weapons, he was safe in the immunities of the
church, none could drag him from the cloister— he belonged
to God.
What a refuge the monastic life afforded then ! With-
out it men would have been divided between beasts of
burden and beasts of prey.
And when at last he took possession of his cell, through
the narrow window he could see Synodune rising over the
Thames ; it was a glorious day, the last kiss of summer,
when the “winter wind was as yet suspended, although
the fading foliage hung resigned.”
Peace ineffable filled his mind.
The hills of Synodune for one moment caught his gaze,
they had been familiar landmarks in his days of war, rapine,
and vengeance, the past rose to his mind, but he longed
not after it now.
But was the old Adam dead or only slumbering % We
shall see.
CHAPTER XI
OSRIC’S FIRST RIDE
Amidst a scene of great excitement, the party of Brian
Fitz-Count left Wallingford Castle, a hundred men, all
armed to the teeth, being chosen to accompany him, while
at least five hundred were left behind, capable of bearing
arms, charged with the defence of the Castle, with orders,
that at least two hundred of their number should repair to
a rendezvous, when the progress of events should require
their presence, and enable the Baron to fix the place of
meeting by means of a messenger.
The day was — as it will be remembered — the second of
October, in the year 1139; the season was late, that is,
summer was loth to depart, and the weather was warm
and balmy. The wild cheers of their companions, who
envied them their lot, contrasted with the sombre faces of
the townsfolk, foreboding evil in this new departure.
By the Baron’s side rode Milo of Gloucester, and they
engaged in deep conversation.
Our young friend Osric was committed to the care of
the senior page Alain, who anticipated much sportive
pleasure in catechising and instructing his young companion
— such a novice in the art of war.
And it may be added in equitation, for we need not say
old Sexwulf kept no horses, and Osric had much ado to
ride, not gracefully, but so as to avoid the jeers and
laughter of his companions.
The young reader, who remembers his own first essay
in horsemanship, will appreciate poor Osric’s difficulty, and
80
BRIAN FI TZ- COUNT
will easily picture the suppressed, hardly suppressed,
laughter of Alain, at each uneasy jolt. However, Osric
was a youth of good sense, and instead of turning red, or
seeming annoyed, laughed heartily too at himself. His
spirits were light, and he soon shook off the depression of
the morning under the influence of the fresh air and
smiling landscape, for the tears of youth are happily — like
an April shower — soon followed by sunshine.
They rode across Cholsey common, then a wide meadowed
space, stretching from Wallingford to the foot of the downs;
they left the newly-restored or rather rebuilt Church of St.
Mary’s of Cholsey on their right, around which, at that
time, clustered nearly all the houses of the village, mainly
built upon the rising ground to the north of the church,
avoiding the swampy common.1
Farther on to the left, across the clear and sparkling
brook, they saw the burnt and blackened ruins of the former
monastery, founded by Ethelred “ the unready,” in atone-
ment for the murder of his half-brother, Edward the Martyr,
and burnt in the same terrible inroad ; one more mile
brought them to the source of the Cholsey brook, which
bubbled up from the earth amidst a thicket of trees at the
foot of a spur of the downs.
Here they all stopped to drink, for the spring was
famous, and had reputed medicinal properties, and, in sooth,
the water was pleasant to the taste of man and beast.
A little beyond was a moated grange belonging to the
Abbot of Reading, a pleasant summer residence in peaceful
times ; but the days were coming when men should avoid
lonely country habitations ; there were a few invalid monks
there, they came forth and gazed upon the party, then
1 It was a cruciform structure, a huge tower on the intersection of
the arms of the cross, the present chancel was not then in existence, a
smaller sanctuary of Norman architecture supplied its place. The old
church had been destroyed with the village in that Danish invasion of
which we have told in the tale of Alfgar the Dane , which took place in
1006, and the place had lain waste till the manor was given to Reading
Abbey, under whose fostering influence it had risen from its ashes.
OSRIC’S FIRST RIDE 81
shook their tonsured heads as the burgesses of Wallingford
had done.
Another mile, and they began to ascend the downs,
where, according to tradition, the battle of HSscendune had
been fought, in the year of grace, 871. Arriving at the
summit, they looked back at the view : Wallingford, the
town and churches, dominated by the high tower of the
keep, was still in full view, and, beyond, the wavy line of
the Chilterns stretched into the misty distance, as described
in the preface to our tale.
But most interesting to Osric was the maze of woodland
which filled the country about Aston (East-tun) and Blew-
bery (Blidberia), for there lay the hut of his grandfather ;
and the tears rose to the affectionate lad’s eyes at the
thought of the old man’s future loneliness, with none but
poor old Judith to console him for the loss of his boy.
Before them rose Lowbury Hill — dominated then by a
watch-tower — which they ascended and stood on the
highest summit of the eastern division of the Berkshire
downs ; before them on the south rose the mountainous
range of Highclere, and a thin line of smoke still ascended
from the bale-fire on the highest point.
Here a horseman was seen approaching, and when he
came near enough, a knight, armed cap-a-pie, was disclosed.
“Friend or foe ?” said Alain to his companion.
“ If a foe, I pity him.”
“ See, the Baron rides forth alone to meet him ! ”
They met about a furlong from the party ; entered into
long and amicable conference, and soon returned to the
group on the hill ; the order brought news which changed
their course, they turned to the west, and instead of riding
for Sussex, followed the track of the Icknield Street for
Devizes and the west.
This brought them across the scene of the midnight
encounter, and Alain’s quick eyes soon detected the traces
of the combat.
“ Look, thdre has been a fight here — see how the ground
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is trampled, and here is a broken sword — ah ! the ground
is soaked with blood — there has been a gallant tussle here
— would I had seen it.”
Osric was not yet so enthusiastic in the love of strife.
Alain’s exclamations brought several of the riders
around him ; and they scrutinised the ground closely, and
they speculated on the subject.
The Baron smiled grimly, and thought —
“ What has become of the corpse 1 ” for he doubted not
he had fed fat his ancient grudge, and slain his foe.
“ Look in yon thicket for the body,” he cried.
They looked, but as our readers anticipate, found
nought.
The Baron wondered, and said a few confidential words
to his friend Milo, which none around heard.
Shortly afterwards their route led them by Cwichelm’s
Hlawe, described before ; the Baron halted his party ; and
then summoning Osric to attend him, rode into the thicket.
The reputed witch stood at the door of her cell.
“ So thou art on thy way to battle ; the dogs of war
are unslipped.”
“ Even so, but dost thou know this boy ? ”
“ Old Sexwulf’s grandson, down in the woods ; so thou
hast got him, ha ! ha ! he is in good hands, ha ! ha ! ”
“ What means thy laughter, like the noise of an old
croaking crow ? ”
“Because thou hast caught him, and the decrees of fate
are about to be accomplished.”
“Retire, Osric, and join the rest.”
“ Now, mother, tell me what thou dost mean ? ”
“ That thy conjunction with this youth bodes thee and
thine little good — the stars have told me that much.”
“ Why, what harm can he do me, a mere boy h ”
“ The free people of old taught their children to sing,
‘ Tremble, tyrants ; we shall grow up.’ ”
“ If he proved false, a blow would rid me of so frail an
encumbrance ”
OSRIC’S FIRST RIDE
83
“ Which thou mightest hesitate to strike.”
“ Tell me why ; I thought he might be my stolen child,
but the lips of old Sexwulf speak truth, and he swears the
lad is his grandson.”
“ It is a wise grandfather who knows his own grand-
son.”
“ Thou knowest many things ; the boy is so like my
poor ■” he hesitated, and suppressed a name; “that,
hard as my heart is, he has softened it: his voice, his
manner, his gestures, tell me ”
“ I cannot as yet.”
“ Dost thou know ? ”
“ Only that old Sexwulf would not wilfully deceive.”
“ And is that all thou hast to say ? ”
“ No, wait, keep the boy near thee, thou shalt know in
time ; thy men are calling for thee — hark thee, Sir Brian,
the men of Donnington are out.”
“ That for them,” and the Baron snapped his fingers.
When he rejoined his troop, he found them in a state
of great excitement, which was explained when they
pointed to moving objects some two or three miles away
on the downs ; the quick eye of the Baron immediately saw
that it was a troop which equalled his own in numbers.
“ The witch spoke the truth,” he said ; and eager as a
war-horse sniffing the fray afar, he gave the word to ride
towards the distant party, which rapidly rose and became
distinct to the sight.
“I see their pennons, they are the men of Donnington,
and their lord is for King Stephen; now, my men, to
redden our bright swords. Osric, thou art new to all this
— Alain, thou art young — stay behind on that mound, and
join us when we have done our work.”
Poor Alain looked grievously hurt.
“My lord!”
“Well?”
“ Do let me share the fight ! ”
“Thou wilt be killed.”
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BRIAN FITZ- COUNT
“ I will take my chance.”
“And Osric ? ”
“ I am not afraid, my lord,” said Osric.
“ But thou canst hardly ride, nor knowest not yet the
use of lance and sword ; here, old Raoul, stay with this
lad.”
“ My lord ! ”
“ And thou, too ; well, hoy, wilt thou pledge me thy
word not (he lowered his voice) to attempt to escape ? ”
He marked a slight hesitation.
“ Remember thy grandfather.”
“ My lord, I will do as thou biddest — stay where thou
shalt bid me, or ride with thee.”
“ Stay on the crest of yonder hill.”
All this time they had been riding forward, and now
the enemy was within hearing.
Both parties paused.
Brian rode forward.
A knight on the other side did the same.
“For God and the Empress,” said the former.
“ For God and the King,” cried the latter.
Instantly the two charged, and their followers waited
to see the result : the lance of the King’s man broke ; that
of Sir Brian held firm, and coming full on the breast,
unhorsed the other, who fell heavily prone, on his head,
like one who, as old Homer hath it, “seeketh oysters in
the fishy sea.”
The others waited no longer, but eager on either side
to share their leader’s fortunes, charged too. Oh, the
awful shock as spear met spear ; oh, the crash, the noise,
the wild shouts, the splintering of lances, then the ringing
of swords upon armour ; the horses caught the enthusiasm
of the moment and bit each other, and struck out with
their fore-legs : it was grand, at least so they said in that
iron age.
But it was soon decided — fortune kept steadfast to her
first inclinations — the troops fared as their leaders had
OSRIC S FIRST RIDE
85
fared — and those who were left alive of the Donnington
men were soon riding southward for bare life.
Brian ordered the trumpeter to recall his men from the
pursuit.
“ Let them go — I have their leader — he at least shall
pay ransom ; they have been good company, and we feel
sorry to see them go.”
The poor leader, Sir Hubert of Donnington, the eldest
son of the lord of that ilk, was lifted, half-stunned, upon a
horse behind another rider, while Brian remembered Osric.
What had been the feelings of the latter ?
Did the reader ever meet that story in St. Augustine’s
Confessions, of a young Christian taken against his will to
see the bloody sports of the amphitheatre. His companions
dragged him thither, he said they might have his body,
but he shut his eyes and stopped his ears until a louder
shout than usual pierced through the auricular protection
— one moment of curiosity, he opened his eyes, he saw
the victor thrust the trident into the palpitating body of
the vanquished, the demon of blood-thirstiness seized him,
he shouted too, and afterwards sought those cruel scenes
from choice, until the grace of God stopped him.
So now with our Osric.
He felt no desire at first to join the m&Ue, indeed, he
knew how helpless he was ; but as he gazed a strange,
wild longing came over him, he felt inclined, nay, could
hardly restrain himself from rushing in ; but his promise
to stay on the hill prevailed over him : perhaps it was
hereditary inclination.
But after all was over, he saw Alain wiping his bloody
sword as he laughed with savage glee.
“ Look, Osric, I killed one — see the blood.”
Instead of being shocked, as a good boy should have
been, Osric envied him, and determined to spend all the
time he possibly could in mastering the art of jousting
and fencing.
They now rode on, leaving twenty of their own dead
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BRIAN FI TZ- COUNT
on the plain, and forty of the enemy; but, as Napoleon
afterwards said — “You cannot make an omelette without
breaking eggs.”
And now, alas, the eggs were human lives — men made
in the image of God — too little accounted of in those days.
They now passed Letcombe Castle, — a huge circular
camp with trench and vallum, capable of containing an
army ; it was of the old British times, and the mediaeval
warriors grimly surveyed this relic of primaeval war.
Below there lay the town of Wantage, — then strongly
walled around, — the birthplace of Alfred. Three more
miles brought them to the Blowing Stone, above Kingston
Lisle, another relic of hoar antiquity ; and Alain, who had
been there before, amused Osric by producing that deep
hollow roar, which in earlier days had served to alarm
the neighbourhood, as he blew into the cavity.
Now the ridgeway bore straight to the highest summit
of the whole range, — the White Horse Hill, — and here
they all dismounted, and tethering their horses, prepared
to refresh man and beast. Poor Osric was terribly sore
and stiff, and could not even walk gracefully ; he was still
able to join Alain in his laughter, but with less grace than
at first.
But we must cut this chapter short ; suffice it to say,
that after a brief halt they resumed their route ; camped
that night under the shelter of a clump of trees on the
downs, and the next day, at Devizes, effected a junction
with the troops of Earl Robert of Gloucester, who, having
left his sister safe in Arundel Castle, was on his way to
secure Bristol, attended by only twelve horsemen.
CHAPTER XII
THE HERMITAGE
For many days Evroult and Richard, the sons — unhappy,
leprous sons — of Brian Fitz-Count, bore their sad lot with
apparent patience in the lazar-house of Byfield ; but their
minds were determined, come weal or woe, they would
endeavour to escape.
“ Where there is a will,” says an old proverb, “ there is
a way,” — the chance Evroult had spoken of soon came.
It was the hour of evening recreation, and in the
spacious grounds attached to the lazar-house, the lepers
were walking listlessly around the well-trodden paths, in
all stages of leprous deformity ; it was curious to note how
differently it affected different people ; some walked down-
cast, their eyes on the ground, studiously concealing their
ghastly wounds; some in a state of semi-idiotcy — no
uncommon result — “ moped and mowed ” ; some, in hope-
less despair, sighed and groaned ; and one cried “ Lost,
lost,” as he wrung his hands.
There were keepers here and there amongst them, too
often lepers themselves. The Chaplain, too, was there,
endeavouring to administer peripatetic consolation first to
one, then to another.
“ Well, Richard, well, Evroult, my boys, how are you
to-day ? ”
“ As well as we ever shall be here.”
“ I want to get out of this place.”
“ And I.”
“ Oh will you not get us out ? Can you not speak to
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BRIAN FITZ- COUNI
the governor ? see, we are nearly well.” Then Bichard
looked at his hand, where two fingers were missing, and
sobbed aloud.
“ It is no use, my dear boys, to dash yourselves against
the bars of your cage, like poor silly birds ; I fear the
time of release will never come, till death brings it either
for you or me — see, I share your lot.”
“ But you have had your day in the world, and come
here of your own accord ; we are only boys, oh, perhaps
with threescore and ten years here before us, as you say
in the Psalms.”
“Nay, few here attain the age the Psalmist gives as
the ordinary limit of human life in his day, and, indeed,
few outside in these days.” 1
“Well, we should have been out of it all, had you not
interfered.”
“ And where ? ”
Echo answered “ Where 1 ” — the boys were silent.
The Chaplain saw that in their present mood he could
do no good — he turned elsewhere.
Nothing but an intense desire to alleviate suffering had
brought him to By field lazar- house. The Christianity of
that age was sternly practical, if superstitious ; and with
all its superstition it exercised a far more beneficent
influence on society than fifty Salvation Armies could have
done ; it led men to remember Christ in all forms of loath-
some and cruel suffering, and to seek Him in the suffering
members of His mystical body; if it led to self-chosen
austerities, it also had its heights of heroic self-immolation
for the good of others.
Such a self-immolation was certainly our Chaplain’s.
He walked amongst these unfortunates as a ministering
angel ; where he could do good he did it, where consolation
1 Too true. Bad sanitary arrangements causing constant plague and
fever, ignorance of medicine, frequent famines, the constant casualties of
war, had brought men to think fifty years a ripe old age in the twelfth
century.
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89
found acceptance he gave it, and many a despairing spirit
he soothed with the hope of the sunny land of Paradise.
And how he preached to them of Him Who sanctified
suffering and made it the path to glory ; how he told them
how He should some day change their vile leprous bodies
that He might make them like His own most glorious
Body, until the many, abandoning all hope here, looked
forward simply for that glorious consummation of body
and soul in bliss eternal.
“ Oh ! how glorious and resplendent
Shall this body some day be ;
Full of vigour, full of pleasure,
Full of health, and strong and free :
When renewed in Christ’s own image,
Which shall last eternally.”
But all this was lost on Evroult and Bichard. The
inherited instincts of fierce generations of proud and ruth-
less ancestors were in them — as surely as the little tigerling,
brought up as a kitten, begins eventually to bite and tear,
so did these poor boys long for sword and lance — for the
life of the wild huntsman or the wilder robber baron.
Instincts worthy of condemnation, yet not without
their redeeming points ; such were all our ancestors once,
whether Angle, Saxon, Jute, or Northman ; and the fusion
has made the Englishman what he is.
The bell began to ring for Vespers ; there was quite a
quarter of an hour ere they went into chapel.
It was a dark autumnal evening, the sun had just gone
down suddenly into a huge bank of dark clouds, and
gloom had come upon the earth, as the two boys slipped
into the bushes, which bordered their path, unseen.
The time seemed ages until the bell ceased and they
knew that all their companions were in chapel, and that
they must immediately be missed from their places.
Prompt to the moment, Evroult cried “ Now, Bichard,”
and ran to the wall ; he had woven a rope from his bed-
clothes, and concealed it about his person ; he had wrenched
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BRIAN FITZ- COUNT
a bar from his window, and twisted it into a huge hook ;
he now threw it over the summit of the lofty wall, and it
bit — held.
Up the wall the boys swarmed, at the very moment
when the Chaplain noticed their missing forms in their
seats in chapel, and the keepers, too, who counted their
numbers as they went in, found “ two short,” and went to
search the grounds.
To search — but not to find. The boys were over the
wall, and running for the woods.
Oh, how dark and dismal the woods seemed in the
gloom. But happily there was a full moon to come that
night, as the boys knew, and they felt also that the dark-
ness shielded them from immediate pursuit.
Onward they plunged — through thicket and brake,
through firm ground and swamp, hardly knowing which
way they were going, until they came upon a brook, and
sat down on its bank in utter weariness.
“ Oh, Evroult, how shall we find our way ? And we
have had no supper ; I am getting hungry already,” cried
the younger boy.
“Do you not know that all these brooks run to the
Cherwell, and the Cherwell into the Thames 1 We will
keep down the brook till we come to the river, and then
to the river till we come to Oxnaford.”
“ Listen, there is the bay of a hound ! Oh, Evroult, he
will tear us in pieces ! It is that savage mastiff of theirs,
‘ Tear-’em.’ The keepers are after us. Oh, what shall we do 1 ”
“ Be men — like our father,” said the sterner Evroult.
“ But we have no weapons.”
“ I have my fist. If he comes at me I will thrust it
down his foul throat, or grasp his windpipe, and strangle
him.”
“Evroult, I have heard that they cannot track us in
water. Let us walk down the brook.”
“ Oh, there is a fire ! ”
“ No, it is the moon rising over the trees ; that is the
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91
light she sends before her. You are right — now for the
brook. Ah ! it feels clear and pebbly, no mud to stick in.
Come, Richard ! let us start. No, stay, I remember that
if the brute finds blood he will go no farther. Here is my
knife,” and the desperate boy produced a little pocket-knife.
“ What are you going to do ? ”
“ Drop a little blood. There is a big blue vein in my arm.”
And the reckless lad opened a vein in his arm, which
bled freely.
“ Let me do the same,” cried the other.
“No; this is enough.” And he scattered the blood all
about, then looked out for some “ dock-leaf,” and bound it
over the wound with part of the cord which had helped
them over the wall.
“Now, that will do. Let us hurry down the brook,
Richard, before they come in sight.”
Such determination had its reward ; they left all pursuit
behind them, and heard no more of the hound.
Tired out at last, they espied with joy an old barn by
the brook side, turned in, found soft hay, and, reckless of
all consequences, slept till the sun was high in the heavens.
Then they awoke, and lo ! a gruff man was standing
over them.
“ Who are you, boys 1 ”
“ The sons of the Lord of Wallingford.”
“ How came you here ? ”
“ Lost in the woods.”
“ But Wallingford is far away to the south.”
“ We are on our road home ; can you give us some food?’
“ If you will come to my house, you shall have what I
can give you. Why ! what is the matter with that hand,
that cheek 1 Good heavens, ye are lepers ; keep off ! ”
The poor boys stood rooted to the spot with shame.
“ And ye have defiled my hay — no one will dare touch
it. I have a great mind to shut you both in, and burn you
and the hay together.”
“That you shall not,” said the fierce Evroult, and
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BRIAN FITZ- COUNT
dashed through the open door, almost upsetting the man,
who was so afraid of touching the lepers that he could
offer no effective resistance, and the two got off.
“ That was a narrow escape, but how shall we get food?”
A few miles down the brook they began to feel very faint.
“ See, there is a farm ; let us ask for some milk and
bread.”
“Richard, you are not marked as I am, you go first.”
A poor sort of farm in the woods — farmhouse, ricks,
stables, barns, of rude construction. A woman was milking
the cows in a hovel with open door.
“Please give us some milk,” said Richard, standing in
the doorway ; “we are very hungry and thirsty.”
“ Drink from the bowl. How came you in the woods?”
“Lost.”
“ And there is another — your brother, is he ? — round
the door. Drink and pass it to him.”
They both drank freely, Evroult turning away the bad
cheek.
As Richard gave back the bowl, the woman espied his
hands.
“ Mother of mercy ! why, where are your fingers ? you
are a leper, out ! out ! John, turn out the dogs.”
“ Nay ! nay! we will go; only throw us a piece of bread.”
“ Why are you not shut up ? Good Saints ! ”
“ Please do not be hard upon us — give us some bread.”
“ Will you promise to go away ? ”
“ Yes, if you will give us some bread.”
“ Keep off, then ; ” and the good woman, a little soft-
ened, gave them some oaten cakes, just as her husband
appeared in the distance coming in from the fields.
“Now off, before any harm come of it; go back to
Byfield lazar-house.”
“ It was so dreadful ; we have run away.”
“ Poor boys, so young too ; but off, or my good man
may set the dogs at you.”
And they departed, much refreshed.
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93
“ Oh Evroult, how every one abhors us ! ”
“ It is very hard to bear.”
At midday, still following the brook, they were saluted
with a stern “ Stand, and deliver ! ”
A fellow in forester’s garb, with bow and arrow so
adjusted that he could send the shaft in a moment through
any body, opposed their passage.
“We are only poor boys.”
“ Whither bound ? ”
“ For Wallingford.”
“ Why, that is three days’ journey hence ; come with me. ”
He led them into an open glade ; there was a large fire
over which a cauldron hung, emitting a most savoury stew
as it bubbled, and stretched around the fire were some
thirty men, evidently outlaws of the Robin Hood type.
“ What are these boys *? ”
“ Wanderers in the woods, who say they want to go to
Wallingford.”
“ Whose sons are ye ? ”
“ Of Brian Fitz-Count, Lord of Wallingford.”
“ By all the Saints ! then my rede is to hang them for
their father’s sake, and have no more of the brood. Have
you any brothers ? Good heavens ! they are lepers.”
“ Send an arrow through each.”
“ For shame, Ulf, the hand of God hath touched them ;
but depart.”
“ Give us some food.”
“Not unless you promise to go back to the lazar-
house, from which we see you have escaped.”
Poor boys, even hungry as they were, they would not
promise.
“Put some bread on that stump,” said the leader, “and
let them take it ; come not near : now off ! ”
It was the last food the poor boys got for many horn’s,
for every one abhorred their presence and drove them off
with sticks and stones, until, wearied out, Richard sank
fainting on the ground on the eventide of that weary day.
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BRIAN FI TZ- COUNT
Evroult was at the end of his resources, and at last felt
beaten ; tears were already trickling down his manly young
face.
An aged man bent over them.
“ Why do you weep, my son ? what is the matter with
your companion ? ”
It was an old man who spoke, in long coarse robe; and
a rope around his waist. Evroult recognised the hermit.
“We are lepers,” said he despairingly.
The old man bent down and kissed their sores.
“ I see Christ in you ; come to my humble cell — there
you shall have food, fire, and shelter.”
He helped them to ascend the rocky side of the valley,
until they came to a natural cave half concealed by her-
bage— an artificial front had been built of stone, with door
and window ; a spring of water bubbled down the rock, to
find its destination in the brook below. Far over the
forest they could see a river, red in the light of the setting
sun, and the buildings of a town of some size in the dim
distance. The river, although they knew it not, was the
Cherwell, the town, Banbury.
He led them and seated them by a fire, gave them food,
then, after he had heard their tale —
“ My dear children,” he said, “ if you dread the lazar-
house so much, ye may stay with me while ye will ; go
not 'forth again into the cruel, cruel world, poor wounded
lambs.”
And the good man put them to bed upon moss and
leaves.
CHAPTER XIII
OSRIC AT HOME
It is not our intention to follow Osric’s career closely during
the early period of his pagehood under the fostering care
of Brian Fitz-Count and the influence of Alain, but we
shall briefly dwell in this chapter upon the great change
which was taking place in his life and character.
When we first met him, he was simple to a fault, but
he had the sterling virtues of truthfulness and obedience,
purity and unselfishness, sedulously cultivated in a con-
genial soil by his grandfather, one of Nature’s noblemen,
although not ranked amongst the Norman noblesse.
But it was the virtue which had never yet met real
temptation. Courageous and brave he was also, but still
up to the date of the adventure with the deer, he had never
struck a blow in anger, or harmed a fellow-creature, save
the beasts of the chase whom he slew for food, not for
sport.
Then came the great change in his life : the gentle,
affectionate lad was thrown into the utterly worldly and
impure atmosphere of a Norman castle — into a new world ;
thoughts and emotions were aroused to which he had been
hitherto a perfect stranger, and, strange to say, he felt
unsuspected traits in his own character, and desires in his
own unformed mind answering to them.
For instance, he who had never raised a hand in angry
strife, felt the homicidal impulse rush upon him during the
skirmish we described in a previous chapter. He longed
to take part in the frays, to be where blows were going ;
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BRIAN FITZ- COUNT
thenceforward he gave himself up with ardour to the study of
war ; he spent all his spare time in acquiring the arts of fence
and the management of weapons ; and Brian smiled grimly
as he declared that Osric would soon he a match for Alain.
But it was long before the Baron allowed him to take
part in actual bloodshed, and then only under circum-
stances which did not involve needless risk, or aught more
than the ordinary chances of mortal combat, mitigated by
whatsoever aid his elders could afford ; for Brian loved the
boy with a strange attachment ; the one soft point in his
armour of proof was his love for Osric — not a selfish love,
but a parental one, as if God had committed the boy to his
charge in the place of those he had lost.
Yet he did not believe Osric was his long-lost son : no,
that child was dead and gone, — the statements of the old
man were too explicit to allow of further doubt.
Osric was present when that brutal noble, Robert Fitz-
Hubert, stormed Malmesbury ; there he beheld for the
first time the horrors of a sack ; there he saw the wretched
inhabitants flying out of their burning homes to fall upon
the swords of the barbarous soldiery. At the time he felt
that terrible thirst so like that of a wild beast, — which in
some modern sieges, such as Badajos, has turned even
Englishmen into wild and merciless savages, — and then
when it was over, he felt sick and loathed himself.
He was fond of Alain, who returned the preference, yet
Alain was a bad companion, for he was an adept in the
vices of his day — not unlike our modern ones altogether,
yet developed in a different soil, and of ranker growth.
Therefore Osric soon had many secrets he could not
confide to his grandfather, whom he was permitted to see
from time to time, — a great concession on the part of the
Lord of Wallingford, who craved all the boy’s love for
himself.
“ Thou art changed, my dear Osric,” said his grandfather
on one of these occasions, a fine Sunday morn when Osric
had leave of absence.
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97
They were on their way through the tangled wood to
the old Saxon Church of Aston Upthorpe, in which King
Alfred was said to have heard Mass.1
“ The woods were God’s first temples, ere man raised
The architrave.”
The very fountains babbled in His honour Who made
them to laugh and sing, the birds sang their matin songs
in His praise — this happy woodland was exempted from all
those horrors of war which already devastated the rest of
England, for it was safe under the protection of Brian, to
whom, wiser than Wulfnoth of Compton, it paid tribute ;
and at this juncture Maude and her party were supreme,
for it was during Stephen’s captivity at Bristol.
“ Thou art changed, my dear Osric.”
“ How, my grandsire ? ”
“ Thy face is the same, yet not the same, even as Adam’s
face was the same, yet not the same, after he learned the
secret of evil, which drove him from Paradise.”
“ And I too have been driven from Paradise : my
Eden was here.”
“ Wouldst thou return if thou couldst ; if Brian con-
sented to release thee.” And the old man looked the youth
full in the face.
Osric was transparently truthful.
“No, grandfather,” he said, and then blushed.
“ Ah, thou art young and lovest adventure and the gilded
panoply of war : what wonder ! such was thy father, Wulfnoth
of Compton, of whom thou art the sole surviving child.”
“Tell me, grandfather, is he dead — is my poor father
dead?”
“ That is a secret which may not be committed even to
thee ; were he alive, he would curse thee, did he know thou
wert fighting under Brian’s banner.”
“ It was to save thy life.”
“ I know it, my child, and would be the last to blame
1 It still stands, one of the oldest of our old village churches.
H
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BRIAN FITZ- COUNT
thee, yet I am glad thy father knows it not. He has never
inquired concerning thee.”
“ Then he is alive ? ”
“ Did I say he was ? I meant not to do so — seek not to
know — knowledge is sometimes dangerous.”
“Well, if he is alive,” said Osric, a little piqued, “he
does not care half so much for me as does my Lord of
Wallingford. He would have asked about me.”
“ He treats thee well then.”
“As if he loved me.”
“ It is strange — passing strange ; as soon should I expect
a wolf to fondle a kid.”
“I am not a kid, at least not now.”
“What then, dear boy1? a wolf?”
“More like one, I think, than a kid.”
“ And thou hast looked on bloodshed with unflinching
eye and not shuddered ? ”
“ I shuddered just at first ; but I have got used to it :
you have often said war is lawful.”
“ Yes, for one’s country, as when Alfred fought against
the Danes or Harold at Senlac. So it was noble to die
as died my father, — your own ancestor, Thurkill of
Kingestun ; so, had I been old enough to have gone with
him, should I have died.”
“ And you took part in the skirmishes which followed
Senlac?”
“ I fought under the hero Here ward.”
“And did you shudder to look upon war?”
“ Only as a youth naturally does the first time he sees
the blood of man poured forth like water — it is not for that
I would reproach thee, only we fought for liberty ; and it
is better to die than to live a life of slavery, — happier far
were they who fell around our noble Harold on the hill of
Senlac, than they who survived to see the desolation and
misery, the chains and slavery which awaited the land; but,
my child, what are you fighting for ? surely one tyrant is no
better than another, Maude or Stephen, what does it matter?”
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99
“ Save, grandfather, that Maude is the descendant of our
old English kings — her great-grandfather was the Ironside
of whose valiant deeds I have often heard you boast.”
“True, my son, and therefore of the two , I wish her
success ; but she also is the grandchild of the Conqueror,
who was the scourge of God to this poor country.”
“ In that case God sent him.”
“Deliver my soul from the ungodly, which is a sword
of Thine,” quoted the pious old man, well versed in certain
translations from the Psalms.
“ My grandfather, I fought against it as long as I could,
as thou knowest ; I would have died, and did brave the
torture, rather than consent to become a page of the Lord
of Wallingford ; and when I did so become to save thy
life, I felt bound in honour to be faithful, and so to the
best of my power I have been.”
“And now thou lovest the yoke, and wouldst not
return ? ”
Again the youth coloured.
“ Grandfather, I cannot help it — excitement, adventure,
the glory of victory, the joy even of combat, has that
attraction for me of which our bards have sung, in the old
songs of the English Chronicles which you taught me
around the hearth.”
“ The lion’s cub is a lion still ; let him but taste blood,
and the true nature comes out.”
“ Better be a lion than a deer — better eat than be eaten,
grandfather.”
“I know not,” said the old man pensively, “but, my
child, never draw thy sword to oppress thy poor country-
men, unless thou wouldst have thy father curse thee.”
“ He is not dead then 1 ”
“ I said not so.”
“Why not tell me whether my father lives V}
“ Because in thy present position, which thou canst not
escape, the knowledge would be dangerous to thee.”
“ How came my father to leave me in thy care ? how
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BRIAN FITZ- COUNT
did my mother die ? why am I the only one left of my
kin?”
“ All this I am bound not to tell thee, my child ; try and
forget it all until thou art of full age.”
“ And then ? ”
“Perchance even then it were better to let the dead
bury their dead.”
Osric sighed.
“ Why am I the child of mystery ? why have I not a
surname like my compeers ? they mock me now and then,
and I have had two or three sharp fights in consequence ;
at last the Baron found it out, for he saw the marks upon
my face, and he spoke so sternly to them that they ceased
to gibe.”
“ My dear boy, commit it all to thy Heavenly Father ;
thou dost not forget thy prayers ? ”
“ Not when I am in the Castle chapel.”
“ And not at other times ? ”
“ It is impossible. I sleep amidst other pages. I just
cross myself when I think of it, and say a Pater and an Ave.”
“ And how often dost thou go to Mass ? ”
“ When we are not out on an expedition, each Sunday.”
“ Does the Baron go to church with you ? ”
“Yes, but he does not believe much in it.”
“ I feared not : and thy companions ? ”
“They often laugh and jest during Matins or Mass.”
“And you?”
“ I try not to join them, because it would grieve you.”
“ There should be a higher motive.”
“ I know it.”
“And with regard to other trials and temptations, are
your companions good lads ? ”
Osric laughed aloud.
“No, grandfather, anything but that.”
“ And you ? ”
“I go to the good priest of St. Marj^’s to Confession,
and that wipes it off.”
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101
“ Nay, my child, not without penitence, and penitence
is shown by ceasing to sin.”
Now they had arrived at the rustic church of East-town,
or Aston, on the slope of the old Eoman camp, which
uprose above the forest. Many woodsmen and rustics of
the humble village were there. It was a simple service :
rude village psalmody ; primitive vestments and ritual,
quite unlike the gorgeous scenes then witnessed in cathedral
or abbey church, in that age of display. Osmund of
Sarum had not made his influence felt much here, although
the church was in the diocese he once ruled. All was of
the old Anglo-Saxon type, as when Alfred was alive, and
England free. There was not a Norman there to criticise ;
they shunned the churches to which the rustics resorted,
and where the homilies were in the English tongue, which
they would not trouble to learn.
Poor Osric ! his whole character and disposition may be
plainly enough traced in the conversation given above.
The reader must not condemn the grandfather, old Sexwulf,
for his reticence concerning the mystery of Osric’s birth.
When Wulfnoth of Compton brought the babe to his door,
it was with strict injunctions not to disclose thp secret till
he gave permission. The old grandfather did not under-
stand the reasons why so much mystery was made of the
matter, but he felt bound to obey the prohibition.
Hence all that Osric knew was that he was the last
survivor of his family, and that all besides him had perished
in the wars, save a father of whom little was known, except
that he manifested no interest whatsoever in his son.
Perhaps the reader can already solve the riddle; we
have given hints enough. Only he must remember that
neither Brian nor Sexwulf had his advantages.
The service of the village church sounded sweetly in
the ears of Osric that day. He was affected by the
associations which cling about the churches where we once
knelt by a father or mother’s side ; and Osric felt like a
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BRIAN FITZ- COUNT
child again as he knelt by his grandfather — it might be for
the last time, for the possibility of sudden death on the battle-
field, of entering a deadly fray never to emerge alive, of
succumbing beneath the sword or lance of some stronger
or more fortunate adversary, was ever present to the mind ;
yet Osric did not fear death on the battle-field. There was,
and is, an unaccountable glamour about it : men who would
not enter a “pest-house” for the world, would volunteer
for a “ forlorn hope.”
But it is quite certain that on that day all the religious
impulses Osric had ever felt, were revived, and that he
vowed again and again to be a true knight, sans joeur et
sans rejproche , fearing nought but God, and afraid only of
sin and shame, as the vow of chivalry imported, if knight
he was ever allowed to become.
Ite missa est 1 — it was over, and they left the rustic
church. Outside the neighbours clustered and chatted as
they do nowadays. They congratulated Sexwulf on his
handsome grandson, and flattered the boy as they com-
mented on his changed appearance, but there always seemed
something they left unsaid.
Neither was their talk cheerful ; it turned chiefly upon
wars and rumours of wars. They had been spared, but
there were dismal tales of the country around — of murder
and arson, of fire and sword, of worse scenes yet behind,
and doom to come.
They hoped to gather in that harvest, whether another
would be theirs to reap was very doubtful. And so at
last they separated, and through some golden fields of
corn, for it was nearly harvest time, Sexwulf and his grand-
son wended their way to their forest home. It was a
day long remembered, for it was the very last of a long
series of peaceful Sundays in the forest. Osric felt un-
usually happy that afternoon, as he returned home with
his grandfather, full of the strength of new resolutions
with which we are told the way to a place, unmentionable
1 Ite missa est, i.e. the concluding words of the Mass.
OSRIC AT HOME
103
to ears polite, is paved ; and his manner to his grandfather
was so sweet and affectionate, that the dear old man was
delighted with his boy.
The evening was spent at home, for there was no Vesper
service at the little chapel — amidst the declining shadows
of the trees, the solemn silence of the forest, the sweet
murmuring of the brook. The old man slept in the shade,
seated upon a mossy bank. Osric slept too, with his head
pillowed upon his grandfather’s lap ; while in wakeful
moments the aged hands played with his graceful locks.
Old Judith span in the doorway and watched the lad.
“ He is as bonny as he is brave, and as brave as he is
bonny, the dear lad,” she said.
Then came the shadows of night. The old man brought
forth his dilapidated harp, and the three sang the evening
hymn to its accompaniment —
“ Te lucis ante terminum,”
and repeated the psalm Qui habitat; then with a short
prayer, not unlike our “ Lighten our darkness,” indeed its
prototype, they retired to sleep, while the wind sighed a
requiem about them through the arches of the forest, and
dewy odours stole through the crevices of the hut —
* ‘ The torrent’s smoothness ere it dash below. ”
CHAPTER XIV
THE HERMITAGE
Nothing is more incomprehensible to the Christians of the
nineteenth century than the lives of the hermits, and the
general verdict passed upon them is, that they were useless,
idle men, who fled from the world to avoid its work, or
else were possessed with an unreasoning superstition which
turned them into mere fanatics.
But this verdict is one-sided and unjust, and founded
upon ignorance of the world of crime and violence from
which these men fled, — a world which seemed so utterly
abandoned to cruelty and lust that men despaired of its
reformation ; a world wherein men had no choice between
a life of strife and bloodshed, and the absolute renunciation
of society ; a world wherein there was no way of escape
but to flee to the deserts and mountains, or enter the
monastic life, for those, who, as ancient Romans, might
have committed suicide, but as Christians, felt they must
live, till God in His mercy called them hence.
And so while the majority of those who sought God
embraced what is commonly called, par excellence, the religious
life, others sought Him in solitude and silence ; wherein,
however, they were followed by that universal reverence
which men, taught by the legends of the Church, bestowed
on the pious anchorite.
Poverty, celibacy, self-annihilation, were their watch-
words ; and in contemplation of death, judgment, Hell,
and Heaven, these lonely hours were passed.
Such a man was Meinhold, with whom the youthful
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105
sons of Brian Fitz-Count had found refuge. From child-
hood upwards he had loathed the sin he saw everywhere
around him, and thence he sought the monastic life ; hut
as ill-hap would have it, found a monastery in which the
monks were forgetful of their vows, and slaves of sin, some-
what after the fashion of those described in Longfellow’s
“ Golden Legend,” for such there were, although, we believe,
they were but exceptions to the general rule —
“ Corruptio optimi est pessima.”
The corruption of that which is very good is commonly
the worst of all corruption : if monks did not rise above
the world, they fell beneath it. Meinhold sternly rebuked
them ; and, in consequence, when one day it was his turn
to celebrate the Eucharist, they poisoned the wine he should
have used. By chance he was prevented from saying the
Mass that day, and a poor young friar who took his place
fell down dead on the steps of the altar. Meinhold shook
off the dust of his feet and left them, and they in revenge
said a Mass for the Dead on his behalf, with the idea that
it would hasten his demise ; for if not religious they were
superstitious.
Then he determined that he would have nought more
to do with his fellow-men, and sought God’s first temples,
the forests. In the summer time he wandered in its
glades, reciting his Breviary, until he found out a place
where he might lay his head.
A range of limestone hills had been cleft in the course
of ages by a stream, which had at length scooped out a
valley, like unto the “chines” in the Isle of Wight, and
now rushed brawling into the river below, adown the vale
it had made. In the rock, on one side of the vale, existed
a large cave, formed by the agency of water, in the first
place, but now high and dry. It had not only one, but
several apartments ; cavern opened out of cavern, and so
dark and devious were their windings, that men feared to
penetrate them.
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BRIAN FI TZ- COUNT
Hither, for the love of God, came Meinhold. He had
found the place he desired — a shelter from the storms of
Heaven. In the outer cave he placed a rude table and
seat, which he made for himself ; and in an inner cavern
he made a bed of flags and leaves.
In the corner of the cell he placed his crucifix.
Wandering in the woods he found the skeleton of some
poor hapless wayfarer, long since denuded of its flesh.
He placed the skull beneath the crucifix as a memento
mori, not without breathing a prayer for the poor soul to
whom it had once belonged.
Here he read his Breviary, which, let the reader
remember, was mainly taken from the Word of God, psalms
and lessons forming three-fourths of the contents of the
book, arranged, as in our Prayer Book, for the Christian
year. It was his sole possession, — a bequest of a deceased
friend, worth its weight in gold in the book market, but
far more valuable in Meinhold’s eyes.
Here, then, he passed a blameless if monotonous existence,
to which but one objection could be made — it was a selfish
life. Even if the selfishness were of a high order, man
was not sent into the world simply to save, each one, his
own soul. The life of the Chaplain at Byfield lazar-house
showed how men could abjure self far more truly than in
a hermitage.
Sometimes thoughts of this kind passed through the
mind of our hermit and drove him distracted, until his
cry became,
“ Lord, what wilt Thou have me to do ? ”
And while he thus sought to know God’s Will, the two
poor fugitives, Evroult and Richard, came into his way.
Poor wounded lambs ! no fear had he of their terrible
malady. The Lord had sent them to him, and the hermit
felt his prayers were answered. Wearied out and tired
by their long day’s journey, the poor boys passively ac-
cepted his hospitality ; and they ate of his simple fare, and
THE HERMITAGE
107
slept on his bed of leaves as if it had been a couch of
down ; nor did they awake till the sun was high in the
heavens.
The hermit had been up since sunrise. He had long
since said his Matins and Lauds from his well-thumbed
book ; and then kindling a fire in a sort of natural hearth
beneath a hole in the rock, which opened to the upper air,
he roasted some oatmeal cakes, and went out to gather
blackberries and nuts, as a sort of dessert after meat, for
the boys. It was all he had to offer.
At last they awoke.
“ Where are we, Evroult ? ”
It was some moments before they realised where they
were — not an uncommon thing when one awakes in the
morning in a strange place.
Soon, however, they bethought themselves of the circum-
stances under which they stood, and rising from their couch,
arranged their apparel, passed their fingers through their
hair in lieu of comb, rubbed their sleepy eyes, and came
into the outer cave, where the hermit crouched before the
fire acting the part of cook.
He heard them, and stood up.
“Pax vobiscum , my children, ye look better this
morning : here is your breakfast, come and eat it, and then
we will talk.”
“ Have you no meat ? ” Evroult was going to say, but
the natural instinct of a gentleman checked him. They
had fed well at the lazar- house, but better oaten cakes
and liberty.
“ Oh what nice nuts,” said Eichard ; “ and blackberries,
too.”
The hermit’s eyes sparkled as he noted the sweet smile
which accompanied the words. The face of the younger
boy was untouched by the leprosy. They satisfied their
hunger, and then began to talk.
“Father, how long may we stay here V*
“ As long as you like — God has sent you hither.”
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BRIAN FIT Z- COUNT
“But we want to get to Wallingford Castle.”
“No ! no ! brother : let us stay here,” said the younger
and milder boy ; “ think how every one hates us ; that
terrible day yesterday — oh, it was a terrible day ! they
treated us as if we had been mad dogs or worse.”
“Yes, we will stay, father, at least for a while, if you
will let us ; we are not a poor man’s sons — not English,
but Normans ; our father is ”
“ Never mind, my child — gentle or simple is all one to
God, and all one here. Did your father then send you to
the lazar-house ? ”
“ Yes, three years agone.”
“ And has he ever sought you since ? ”
“ No, he has never been to see us — he has forgotten us ;
we were there for life ; we knew and felt it, and only a
week ago strove to drown ourselves in the deep pond.”
“That was very wrong — no one may put down the
burden of the flesh, till God give him leave.”
“ Do you think you can cure us ? ”
“ Life and death, sickness and health, are all in God’s
hands. I will try.”
Their poor wan faces lit up with joy.
“ And this hole in my cheek ? ”
“ But my poor fingers, two are gone ; you cannot give
them me back,” and Richard burst into tears.
“ Come, my child, you must not cry — God loves you and
will never leave nor forsake you. Every cloud has its bright
side ; what if you have little part in the wicked world ? ”
“ But I love the world,” said Evroult.
“ Love the world ! Do you really love fighting and
bloodshed, fire and sword ? for they are the chief things
to be found therein just now.”
“ Yes I do ; my father is a warrior, and so would I be,”
said the unblushing Evroult.
“And thou, Richard?”
“I hardly know,” said he of the meeker spirit and
milder mood.
THE HERMITAGE
109
“ Come, ye children, and hearken unto me, and I will
teach you the fear of the Lord.”
“ Slaves fear.”
“ Ah, but it is not the fear of a slave , but a son of which
I speak — that fear which is the beginning of wisdom ;
and which, indeed, every true knight should possess if he
fulfil the vows of chivalry. But I will not say more now.
Wander in the woods if you like, just around the cave, or
down in the valley ; gather nuts or blackberries, but go not
far, for fear ye meet men who may ill-treat you.”
Then the hermit went forth, and threw the crumbs
out of his cave ; the birds came in flocks. Evroult caught
up a stone.
“ Nay, my child, they are my birds ; we hurt nothing
here. See ! come, pet ! birdie ! ” and a large blackbird
nestled on his shoulder, and picked at a crust which the
hermit took in his hand.
“ They all love me, as they love all who are kind to
them. Birds and beasts are alike welcome here ; some
wolves came in the winter, but they did me no harm.”
“ I should have shot them, if I had had a bow.”
“Nay, my child, you must not slay my friends.”
“ But may we not kill rabbits or birds to eat ? ”
“ No flesh is eaten here ; we sacrifice no life of living
thing to sustain our own wretched selves.”
“No meat ! not of any kind ! not even on feast-days ! ”
“ My boy, you will be better without it — it nourishes all
sorts of bad passions, pride, cruelty, impurity, all are born
of the flesh ; and see, it is not needed. I am well and strong
and never ill.”
“ But I should soon be,” said Evroult.
“Nay, I like cakes, nuts, and blackberries better,” said
Richard.
“ Quite right, my son ; now go and play in the valley
beneath, until noonday, when you may take your noon
meat.”
They lay in the shade of a tree. It was one of the last
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BRIAN FITZ- COUNT
days of summer, and all seemed pleasant — the murmur of
the brook and the like.
“ I can never bear this long,” said Evroult.
“I think it very pleasant,” said Richard ; “do not ask
me to go away.”
Evroult made no reply.
“It is no use, brother,” said Richard, “ no use ; we can
never be knights and warriors unless we recover of our
leprosy ; and so the good God has given us a home and a
kind friend, and it is far better than the lazar-house.”
“ But our father % ”
“He has forsaken us, cast us olf. We should never
get out with his permission. No ! be content, let us stay
here — yesterday frightened me — we should never reach
Wallingford alive.”
And so Evroult gave way, and tried his best to be
content — tried to learn of Meinhold, tried to do without
meat, to love birds and beasts, instead of shooting them,
tried to learn his catechism ; yes, there was always a form
of catechetical instruction for the young, taught generally
viva voce , and the good hermit gave much time to the boys
and found delight therein.
Richard consented to learn to read and write ; Evroult
disdained it, and would not learn.
So the year passed on ; autumn deepened into winter.
There was plenty of fuel about, and the boys suffered little
from cold; they hung up skins and coverings over the
entrances to the caves, and kept the draught out.
There was a mystery about those inner caves ; the
hermit would never let them enter beyond the two or three
outer ones — those dark and dismal openings were, he
assured them, untenanted ; but their windings were such
that the boys might easily lose their way therein, and
never get out again — he thought there were precipitous gulfs
into which they might fall.
But sometimes at night, when all things were still, the
strangest sounds came from the caves, like the sobbings of
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111
living things, the plaintive sigh, the hollow groan : and the
boys heard and shuddered.
“ It is only the wind in the hollows of the earth,” said
Meinhold.
“ How does it get in ? ” asked the boys.
“ There are doubtless many crevices which we know not.”
“ I thought there were ghosts there.”
“ Nay, my child. It is only the wind : sleep in peace.”
But as the winter storms grew frequent, these deep
sighs and hollow groans seemed to increase, and the boys
lay and shuddered, while sometimes even the hermit was
fain to cross himself, and say a prayer for any poor souls
who might be in unrest.
The winter was long and cold, but spring came at last.
The change of air had worked wonders in the "general
health of the boys, but the leprosy had not gone : no, it
could not really be said that there was any change for the
better.
Only the poor boys were far happier than at Byfield ;
they entered into the ideas and ways of the hermit more
and more. Evroult at last consented to learn to read, and
found time pass more rapidly in consequence.
But he could not do one thing — he could not subdue
those occasional bursts of passion which seemed to be
rooted in the very depths of his nature. When things
crossed him he often showed his fierce disposition, and
terrified his brother ; who, although brave enough, — how
could one of such a breed be a coward, — stood in awe of
the hermit, and saw things with the new light the Gospel
afforded more and more each day.
One day the old hermit read to them the passage
wherein it is written, “ If a man smite you on one cheek,
turn to him the other.” Evroult could not restrain his
dissent.
“ If I did that I should be a coward, and my father, for
one, would despise me. If that is the Gospel, I shall never
be a real Christian, nor are there many about.”
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BRIAN FI TZ- COUNT
“ I would, my son, that you had grace, to think differ-
ently. These be counsels of perfection, given by our Lord
Himself to His disciples.”
“ I could not turn the other cheek to my enemy to save
my life.”
“ Then let him smite you on the same one.”
“ I could not do that either,” said Evroult more sharply.
“ If you cannot, at least do not return evil for evil.”
“ I should if I had the power.”
“ My child, it is the devil in you which makes you say
that.”
Evroult turned red with passion, and Bichard began to
cry.
“ Nay, my child, do not cry ; that is useless. Pray for
him,” said the hermit.
Another time Evroult craved flesh.
“ No, my son,” said Meinhold, “ when a man fills himself
with flesh, straightway the great vices bubble out. I
remember a monk who one Lent went secretly and bought
some venison from a wicked gamekeeper, and put it in his
wallet ; when lo ! as he was returning home, the dogs,
smelling the flesh, fell upon him, and tore him up as well
as the meat.”
“ Why is it wrong to eat meat ? The Chaplain at
Byfield told me that the Bible said it was lawful at proper
times, and this is not Lent.”
“ It is always Lent here, — in a hermit’s cell, — and it is a
duty to be contented with one’s food. I knew a monk
who grumbled at his fare and said he would as soon eat
toads \ and lo ! the just God did not disappoint him of his
desire. For a month and more his cell was filled with
toads. They got into his soup, they jumped upon his
plate, they filled his bed, until I think he would have
died, had not all the brethren united in prayer that he
might be free from the scourge.”
Evroult laughed merrily at this, and forgot his crav-
ing. In short, the old man was so loving and kind,
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113
and so transparently sincere, that he could not he angry
long.
Another fault Evroult had was vanity. Once he was
admiring himself in the mirror of a stream, for he really
was, but for the leprosy, a handsome lad. “ Ah, my child,”
said Meinhold, “thou art like a house which has a gay
front, but the thieves have got in by the back door.”
“Nay,” said poor Evroult, putting his hand to his
hollowed cheek, “they have broken through the front
window.”
“ Ah, what of that ; the house shall be set in order by
and by, if thou art a good lad.”
He meant in Heaven. But Evroult only sighed.
Heaven seemed to him far off : his longings were of the
earth.
And Bichard : well, that supernatural influence we call
“ grace ” had found him in very deed. He grew less and
less discontented with his lot ; murmured no more about the
lost fingers ; scarcely noticed the fact that the others were
going ; but drank in all the hermit’s talk about the life
beyond, with the growing conviction that there alone
should he regain even the perfection of the body. One-
effect of his touching resignation was this, that the hermit
conceived so much love towards him, that he had to pray
daily against idolatry, as he fancied the affection for an
earthly object must needs be, and so restrained it that
there was little fear of his spoiling the boy.
The hermit, who, as we have seen, was a priest, had
hitherto been restrained by the canons from saying Mass
alone, and had sought some rustic church for Communion.
Of course he could not take the young lepers there, so he
celebrated the Holy Mysteries in a third cave, fitted up as
best it might be for a chapel, and the boys assisted. One
would think Nature had designed this third cave for a
chapel. There was a natural recess for the altar ; there
were fantastic pillars like those in a cathedral, only more
irregular, supporting the roof, which was lofty ; and
I
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BRIAN FITZ- COUNT
stalactites, graceful as the pendants in an ice-cavern, hung
from above.
They never saw other human beings, save now and then
some grief -stricken soul came for spiritual advice and
assistance, always given without their dwelling, with the
stream between the hermit and the seeker. For leprosy
was known to be in the cave, and it was commonly re-
ported that Meinhold had paid the natural penalty of his
self-devotion.
It was too true.
One day Evroult saw him looking at a red burning spot
on his palm.
He recognised it and burst into tears.
“ Father, you have given yourself for us : I wish the
dogs had torn me before I came here.”
“ Christ gave Himself for me,” said Meinhold quietly.
“ Did you not know it, Evroult ? I knew it long ago,”
said Richard quietly. It seemed natural to him that one
who loved the Good Shepherd should give his life for the
sheep. But the sweet smile with which he looked into the
hermit’s face was quite as touching as Evroult’s tears.
The hermit was quite indifferent to the fact.
“ As well this as any other way,” he said ; yet the
affection of the boys was pleasant to him.
They lacked not for food. The people of the neigh-
bouring farms, some distance across the forest, sent presents
of milk and eggs and fruit from time to time, and of other
necessaries. They had once been boldly offered : now they
were set down on the other side of the stream and left.
Occasionally hunters — the neighbouring barons — broke
the silence with hound and horn. They generally avoided
the hermit’s glen — conspicuously devoted to the peace of
God ; but once a poor flying stag, pursued by the hounds,
came tearing down the vale. Evroult glistened with ani-
mation : he would have rushed on in the train of the
huntsmen, but the hermit restrained him.
“ They would bid their dogs tear you,” he said, “ when
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115
they saw you were a leper.” Then he continued, “Ah, my
child, it is a sad sight : sin brought all this into the world,
— God’s creatures delighting to rend each other ; so will
the fiends hunt the souls of the wicked after death, until
they drive them into the lake of fire.”
“Ah, here comes the poor deer,” said Richard, who had
caught the hermit’s love of all that moved. “ See, he has
turned : open the door, father.”
The deer actually scaled the plateau, wild with terror, —
its eyes glaring, the sweat bedewing its limbs ; and it rushed
through the opened door of the cave.
“ Close the door — the dogs will be here.”
The dogs came in truth, and raved about the closed
door until the huntsmen came up, when the hermit emerged
upon a ledge above.
“ Where is our deer ? hast thou seen it, father % ”
“ It has taken sanctuary.”
They looked at each other.
“Nay, father, sanctuary is not for such creatures : drive
it forth.”
“ God forbid ! the shadow of the Cross protects it.
Call off your dogs and go your way.”
“ Let us force the door,” said a rough sportsman.
“ Accursed be he who does so ; his light shall be ex-
tinguished in darkness,” said the hermit.
“ Come, there are more deer than one ; ” and the knight
called off his dogs with great difficulty.
“ Thou hast done well : so shall it be for thy good in
time of need, Sir Knight.”
“ I would sooner fight the deadliest fight I have ever
fought than violate that sanctuary,” said the latter; “a
curse would be sure to follow.”
When the hunters had at last taken themselves away,
dogs and all, and the discontented whines and howls of
the hounds and the crack of the huntsman’s whip had
ceased to disturb the silence of the dell, the hermit and
the boys went in to look at the deer : he had thrown him-
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BRIAN FITZ- COUNT
self down, or fallen, panting, in the boys’ bed of leaves, and
turned piteous yet confiding eyes on them, large and
lustrous, which seemed to implore pity, and to say, “I
know you will not let them hurt me.”
The better instinct of Evroult was touched.
“Well, my son,” said the hermit, “dost thou still crave
for flesh 1 Shall we kill him and roast some venison
collops ] ”
“ No,” said Evroult, with energy.
“ Ah, I thought so, thou art learning compassion :
‘ Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy.’ ”
“Brother,” said Bichard, “let us try and get that
blessing.”
Evroult pressed his hand.
And when it was dark and all was quiet, they let the
deer go. The poor beast, as if it had reason, almost
refused to depart, and licked their hands as if it knew its
protectors, as doubtless it did.
But we must close this chapter, having begun the sketch
of a life which continued uneventfully for two full years.
Here ends the first part of our tale. We must leave
the boys with the good hermit ; Osric learning the usages
of war, and other things, under the fostering care of Brian
Fitz-Count ; Wulfnoth as a novice at Dorchester ; and so
allow a period to pass ere our scattered threads reunite.
CHAPTER XV1
THE ESCAPE FROM OXFORD CASTLE
Two years had passed away, and it was the last week of
Advent, in the year of our Lord 1141.
The whole land lay under a covering of deep snow, the
frost was keen and intense, the streams were ice-bound
when they could be seen, for generally snow had drifted
1 The historical course of events during these two years may he briefly
summed up. The English at first embraced the cause of Maude with
alacrity, because of her descent from their ancient monarchs, and so did
most of the barons. A dire civil war followed, in which multitudes of
freebooters from abroad, under the name of “free lances,” took partin
either side. Hereford, Gloucester, Bristol, Oxford, Wallingford — all became
centres of Maude’s power ; and at last, at the great battle of Lincoln — the
only great battle during the miserable chaos of strife — Stephen became
her prisoner.
Then she had nearly gained the crown : Henry, Bishop of Winchester,
Papal legate and brother of Stephen, joined her cause, and received her as
Queen at Winchester. The wife of King Stephen begged her husband’s
liberty on her knees, promising that he should depart from the kingdom and
become a monk. But Maude was hard-hearted, and spurned her from her
presence, rejecting, to her own great detriment, the prayer of the suppliant ;
and not only did she do this, but she also refused the petition of Henry of
Winchester, that the foreign possessions of Stephen might pass to his son
Eustace. In consequence, the Bishop abandoued her cause, and Maude
found that she had dashed the cup of fortune from her hand by her harsh
conduct, which at last became past bearing. She refused the Londoners
the confirmation of their ancient charters, because they had submitted to
the rule of Stephen ; whereupon they rose, en masse , against her, and
drove her from the city. She hastened to Winchester, but the Bishop
followed, and drove her thence ; and in the flight Robert, Earl of Gloucester
was captured. He was exchanged for Stephen, both leaders were at liberty
and the detestable strife began, de novo.
Then Maude took up her abode at Oxford, where Stephen came and
besieged her, as related in the text.
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BRIAN F IT Z- COUNT
and filled their channels ; only the ice on the Thames,
wind-swept, could be discerned.
Through the dense woods of Newenham, which over-
hung the river, about three miles above the Abbey Town
(Abingdon), at the close of the brief winter’s day, a youth
might have been seen making his way (it was not made for
him) through the dense undergrowth towards the bed of
the stream.
He was one of Dame Nature’s most favoured striplings, —
tall and straight as an arrow, with a bright smile and sunny
face, wherein large blue eyes glistened under dark eyebrows ;
his hair was dark, his features shapely, his face, how-
ever, sunburnt and weather-beaten, although he only
numbered eighteen years.
Happily unseen, for in those days the probability was
that every stranger was a foe to be avoided, and for such
foes our young friend was not unprepared ; it is true, he
wore a simple woollen tunic, bound round by a girdle,
but underneath was a coat of the finest chain-armour, proof
against shafts, and in his hand he had a boar-spear, while
a short sword was suspended in its sheath, from his belt.
Fool indeed would one have been, whether gentle or
simple, to traverse that district, or indeed any other district
of “Merrie” England, unarmed in the year 1141, and our
Osric was not such a simple one.
He has “ aged ” since we last saw him. He is quite the
young warrior now. The sweet simplicity, begotten of youth
and seclusion, is no longer there, yet there is nought to
awaken distrust. He is not yet a knight, but he is the
favourite squire of Brian Fitz-Count — that terrible lord, and
has been the favourite ever since Alain passed over to the
immediate service of the Empress Queen.
We will not describe him further — his actions shall
speak for him ; and if he be degenerate, tell of his
degeneracy.
As he descended the hill towards the stream, a startling
interruption occurred ; a loud snarl, and a wolf — yes, there
THE ESCAPE FROM OXFORD CASTLE
119
were wolves in England then — snapped at him : he had
trodden on her lair.
Quick as thought the hoar-spear was poised, and the
animal slank away, rejecting the appeal to battle. For why %
She knew there were plenty of corpses about unburied for
her to eat, and if they were not quite so sweet as Osric’s
fair young flesh, they would be obtained without danger.
Such was doubtless wolfish philosophy.
He passed on, not giving a second thought to an adventure
which would fill the mind of a modern youth for hours —
but he was hardened to adventures, and blast of them.
So he took them as a matter of course and as the ordinary
incidents of life : it was a time of carnage, when the
“ survival of the fittest ” was being worked out amongst our
ancestors.
“ Ah, here is the river at last,” he said to himself, “ and
now I know my way : the ice will bear me safely enough,
and I shall have an easier road ; although I must be care-
ful, for did I get in, I could hardly swim in this mail-shirt.”
So he stopped, and taking a pair of rude skates from his
wallet, bound them to his iron-clad shoes, and skated up
stream — through a desolate country.
Anon the grim old castle of the Harcourts frowned
down upon him from the height where their modern
mansion now stands. The sentinels saw him and sent an
arrow after him, but it was vain defiance — the river was
beyond arrow shot, and they only sent one, because it was
the usual playful habit of the day to shoot at strangers,
young or old. Every man’s hand was against every man.
They did not think the dimly discerned stranger,
scudding up stream, worth pursuit, especially as it was
getting dark, and the snow drifts were dangerous. So they
let him go, not exactly with a benediction.
And soon he was opposite the village of Sandford, or
rather where the village should have been ; but it was
burnt to the very ground — not a house or hovel was stand-
ing; not a dog barked, for there were no dogs left to bark ;
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BRIAN FI TZ- COUNT
nor was any living creature to be seen. Soon Iffley, another
scene of desolation, was in sight ; but here there were
people. The old Norman Church, the same the voyager
still sees, and stops to examine, was standing, and was
indeed the only edifice to be seen : all else was blackened
ruin, or would have been did not the snow mercifully cover
it.
Here our young friend left the river, and taking off
his rude skates, ascended the bank to the church by a
well-trodden path, and pushed open the west door.
He gazed upon a scene to which this age happily affords
no parallel. The church was full, but not of worshippers ;
two or three fires blazed upon the stone pavement, and
the smoke, eddying upwards, made its exit through holes
purposely broken in the roof for that end ; around each fire
sat or squatted groups of men, women, and children — hollow-
eyed, famine-pinched, plague-stricken, or the like. There
was hardly a face amongst them which distress had not
deprived of any beauty it might once have possessed. Many
a household was there — father, mother, sons and daughters,
from the stripling to the babe. The altar and sanctuary
were alone respected : a screen then divided them from the
nave, and the gate was jealously locked, opened only each
day when the parish priest, who lived in the old tower
above, still faithful to his duty, went in at dawn, and said
Mass ; Avhile the poor wretched creatures forgot their
misery for a while, and worshipped.
Osric passed, unquestioned, through the groups, — the
church was a sanctuary to all, — and at last he reached the
chancel gate. A youth of his own age leant against it.
“ Osric.”
“Alain.”
They left the church together, and sought a solitary
place on the brink of the hill above.
Where the modern tourist often surveys the city from
the ridge of Rose Hill, our friends gazed. The city, great
even then, lay within its protecting rivers and its new
THE ESCAPE FROM OXFORD CASTLE
121
walls, dominated by the huge keep of the castle of Robert
d’Oyley which the reader still may see from the line, as he
nears the city.
But what a different scene it looked down upon. The
moon illumined its gray walls, and the fires of the besiegers
shone with a lurid glare about the city and within its
streets, while the white, ghostly country environed it around.
“ Thou hast kept thy tryst, Osric.”
“ And thou thine, Alain ; but thine was the hardest.
How didst thou get out ? by the way we agreed upon before
Heft Oxford ? ”
“ It was a hard matter. The castle is beleaguered, the
usurper is there, and that treacherous priest, his brother,
says a sort of black Mass every day in the camp : the city
is all their own, and only the castle holds out.”
“ And how is our lady ? ”
“Poor Domina,1 as she signs herself. Ah, well, she
shall not starve while there is a fragment of food in the
neighbourhood, but, Oh, Osric ! hunger is hard to bear ;
fortunate wert thou to be chosen to accompany our lord
in that desperate sally a month agone which took you all
safely to Wallingford. But what news dost thou bring?”
“ That the great Earl of Gloucester and Henry
Plantagenet have landed in England, and will await the
Empress at Wallingford if she can escape from Oxford.”
“ I can get out myself, as thou seest, and have been able
to keep our tryst, but the Empress — how can we risk her
life so precious to us all ? Osric, she must descend by ropes,
and to-day my hands were so frozen by the cold that I
almost let go, and should have fallen full fifty feet had I
done so ; but for a woman — even if, like ‘ Domina/ she
be more than woman — it will be parlous difficult.”
“It must be tried, for no more reinforcements have
appeared : we are wofully disappointed.”
“ And so are we : day by day we have hoped to see
1 Maude did not venture to call herself Queen, but signed her deeds
Domina or Lady of England.
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BRIAN FITZ- COUNT
your pennons advancing over the frozen snow to our
rescue. Alas ! it was nought we saw, save bulrushes and
sedges. Then day by day we hear the trumpets blow,
and the usurper summons us to surrender, without terms,
to his discretion.”
“We will see him perish first,” said Osric. “Hear our
plans. If thou canst persuade the lady to descend from
the tower, and cross the stream at the midnight after to-
morrow, we will have a troop on the outskirts of Bagley
wood, to escort the precious freight to Wallingford, in
spite of all her foes, or we will die in her defence.”
“It is well spoken ; and I think I may safely say that
it shall be attempted.”
“ And the Baron advises that ye all wear white woollen
tunics like mine, as less likely to be distinguished in the
snow, and withal warm.”
“We have many such tunics in the castle. At midnight
to-morrow the risk will be run, you may depend upon it.
See, the Domina has entrusted me with her signet, that
you may see that I am a sort of plenipotentiary.”
“ And now farewell. Canst thou find thy way through
the darkness to Wallingford % Oxford is near at hand.”
“Nay, I shall rest in the church to-night, and depart at
dawn : I should lose my way in the snow.”
“After Mass, I suppose,” said Alain sarcastically.
“Yes,” said Osric, blushing. He was getting ashamed
of the relics of his religious observances ; “ but Mass and
meat, you know, hinder no man. I shall be at Wallingford
ere noon, and the horse will start about the dusk of the
evening. God speed thee.” And they parted.
The Castle of Oxford was one of the great strongholds
of the Midlands. Its walls and bastions enclosed a large
area, whereon stood the Church of St. George. On one
side was the Mound, thrown up in far earlier days than
those of which we write, by Ethelflseda, sister of Alfred,
and near it the huge tower of Robert d’Oyley, which still
survives, a stern and silent witness of the unquiet past.
THE ESCAPE FROM OXFORD CASTLE
123
In an upper chamber of that tower was the present apart-
ment of the warlike lady, alike the descendant of Alfred
and the Conqueror, and the unlike daughter of the sainted
Queen Margaret of Scotland. And there she sat, at the time
when Osric met Alain at Iffley Church, impatiently awaiting
the return of her favourite squire, for such was Alain, whose
youthful comeliness and gallant hearing had won her heart.
“ He tarries long : he cometh not,” she said. “ Tell
me, my Edith, how long has he been gone 1 ”
“ Scarce three hours, madam, and he has many dangers
to encounter. Perchance he may never return.”
“Now the Saints confound thy boding tongue.”
“Madam!”
“ Why, forsooth, should he be unfortunate ? so active,
so brave, so sharp of wit.”
“ I only meant that he is mortal.”
“ So are we all — but dost thou, therefore, expect to die
to-day 1 ”
“ Father Herluin says we all should live as if we did,
madam.”
“You will wear my life out. Well, yes, a convent will
be the best place for thee.”
“Nay, madam.”
“ Hold thy peace, if thou canst say nought but ‘ nay,5 ”
said the irascible Domina.
Her temper, her irritability and impatience, had alien-
ated many from her cause. Perchance it would have
alienated Alain like the rest, only he was a favourite, and
she was seldom sharp with him.
How like her father she was in her bearing ! even in
her undress, for she wore only a thick woollen robe, stained,
by the art of the dyers, in colours as various as those of
the robe Jacob made for Joseph. Sometimes it flew open,
and displayed an inner vesture of rich texture, bound round
with a golden zone or girdle ; and around her head, con-
fining her luxuriant hair, was a circlet of like precious
metal, which did duty for a diadem.
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BRIAN FITZ- COUNT
Little of her sainted mother was there in the Empress
Queen ; far more of her stern grandfather, the Conqueror.
The chamber, of irregular dimensions, was lighted by
narrow loopholes. There was a hearth and a chimney,
and a brazier of wood and charcoal burned brightly.
Even then the air was cold, for it was many degrees below
the freezing point, not that they as yet knew how to
measure the temperature.
She sat and glowered at the grate, as the light departed,
and the winter night set in, dark and gloomy. More than
once she approached the windows, or loopholes, and looked
upon the ruined city in the chill and intermittent moonlight.
It was nearly all in ruins. Here and there a church
tower rose intact ; here and there a lordly dwelling ; but
fire and sword had swept it. Neither party regarded the
sufferings of the poor. Sometimes the besiegers made a
fire in sport, and warmed themselves by the blaze of a
burgher’s dwelling, nor recked how far it spread. Some-
times, as we have said, the besieged made a sally, and set
fire to the buildings which sheltered their foes. Whichever
prevailed, the citizens suffered; but little recked their
oppressors.
From her elevated chamber Maude could see the watch-
fires of the foe in a wide circle around, but she was ac-
customed to the sight, tired of it, in fact, and her one desire
was to escape to Wallingford, a far more commodious and
stronger castle.
In Frideswide, of which she could discern the towers,
which as yet had escaped the conflagration, were the head-
quarters of her rival, who was living there at ease on the
fat of the land, such fat as was left, at the expense of the
monastic community. And while she gazed, she clenched
her dainty fist, and shook it at the unheeding Stephen,
while she muttered unwomanly imprecations.
And while she was thus engaged, they brought up her
supper. It consisted of a stew of bones, which had already
been well stripped of their flesh at “the noon-meat.”
THE ESCAPE FROM OXFORD CASTLE
125
“ We are reduced to bones, and shall soon be nought
but bones ourselves ; but our gallant defenders, I fear, fare
worse. Here, Edith, Hilda, bring your spoons and take
your share.”
And with small wooden spoons they dipped into the
royal dish.
A step on the stairs and the chamberlain knocked, and
at her bidding entered. “ Lady, the gallant page has
returned : how he entered I know not.”
“ He is unharmed ? ”
“ Scatheless, by the favour of God and St. Martin.”
“ Let him enter at once.”
And Alain appeared.
“My gallant squire, how hast thou fared? I feared
for thee.”
“They keep bad watch. A rope lowered me to the
stream : I crossed, and seeking covered ways, gat me to
Iffley, and in like fashion returned. I bear good news,
lady ! Thy gallant brother of Gloucester, and the Prince,
thy son, have landed in England, and will meet thee at
Wallingford.”
“ Thank God ! ” said Maude. “ My Henry, my royal boy,
I shall see thee again. With such hope to cheer a mother’s
heart, I can dare anything. Well hast thou earned our
thanks, my Alain, my gallant squire.”
“The Lord of Wallingford will send a troop of horse to
scout on the road between Abingdon and Oxford to-morrow
night, the Eve of St. Thomas.”
“We will meet them if it be possible — if it be in human
power.”
“ The river is free — all other roads are blocked.”
“ But hast thou considered the difficulties of descent ? ”
“ They are great, lady : it was easy for me to descend
by the rope, but for thee, alas, that my queen should need
such expedients ! ”
“It is better than starvation. We are reduced to the
bones, as thou seest ; but thou art hungry and faint. Let
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BRIAN FITZ- COUNT
me order a basin of this savoury stew for thee ; it is all we
have to offer.”
“What is good enough for my Empress and Queen, is
good enough for her faithful servants ; but I may not eat
in thy presence.”
“ Nay, scruple not ; famine effaces distinctions.”
Thus encouraged, Alain did not allow his scruples to
interfere further with his appetite, and partook heartily of
the stew of bones, in which, forsooth, the water and meal
were in undue proportion to the meat.
The meal despatched, the Empress sent Alain to sum-
mon the Earl of Oxford, Bobert d’Oyley, to her presence.
He was informed of the arrival of the Earl and the Prince,
and the plan of escape was discussed.
All the ordinary avenues of the castle were watched so
closely that extraordinary expedients were necessary, and
the only feasible mode of escape appeared to be the difficult
road which Alain had used successfully, both in leaving
and returning to the beleaguered fortress.
A branch of the Isis washed the walls of the tower.
It was frozen hard. To descend by ropes upon it in the
darkness, and cross to the opposite side of the stream,
appeared the only mode of egress.
But for a lady — the Lady of England — was it possible ?
was it not utterly unworthy of her dignity ?
She put this objection aside like a cobweb.
“ Canst thou hold out the castle much longer ?”
“At the most, another week; our provisions are nearly
exhausted. This was our last meal of flesh, of which I see
the bones before me,” replied the Lord of Oxford.
“ Then if I remain, thou must still surrender ? ”
“ Surrender is inevitable , lady.”
“ Then sooner would I infringe my dignity by dangling
from a rope, than become the prisoner of the foul usurper
Stephen, and the laughing-stock of his traitorous barons.”
“ Sir Ingelric of Huntercombe, and two other knights,
besides thy gallant page, volunteer to accompany thee, lady.”
THE ESCAPE FROM OXFORD CASTLE
127
“ And for thyself ? ”
“I must remain to the last, and share the fortunes of
my vassals. Without me, they would find scant mercy
from the usurpers.”
“ Then, to-morrow night, ere the moon rise, the attempt
shall be made.”
And the conference broke up.
It was a night of wildering snow, dark and gloomy.
The soft, dry, powdery material found its way in at each
crevice, and the wind made the tapestry, which hung on
the walls of the presence chamber of the “ Lady Maude,”
oscillate to and fro with each blast.
Robert d’Oyley was alone in deep consultation with his
royal mistress.
“ Then if I can escape, thou wilt surrender ? ”
“ Nought else is to be done ; we are starving.”
“ They will burn the castle.”
“ There is little to burn, and I hardly think they will
attempt that : it will be useful to them, when in their
hands.”
“ It is near the midnight hour : the attempt must be
made. Now summon young Alain and my faithful
knights.”
They entered at the summons, each clothed in fine mail,
with a white tunic above it. The Empress bid adieu to her
handmaidens, who had clad her in a thick white cloak to
match : they wept and wailed, but she gently chid them —
“We have suffered worse things : the coffin and hearse
in which we left Devizes was more ghastly ; and God will
give an end to these troubles also : fear not, we are prepared
to go through "with it.”
A small door was opened in the thickness of the wall ; it
led to the roof, over a lower portion of the buildings
beneath the shadow of the tower ; and the knights, with
Alain and their lady, stood on the snow-covered summit.
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BRIAN FITZ- COUNT
Not long did they hesitate. The river beneath was
frozen hard ; it lay silent and still in its ice-bound sepulchre.
The darkness was penetrated by the light of the watch-fires
in all directions : they surrounded the town on all sides,
save the one they had not thought it necessary to guard
against. There was a fire and doubtless a watch over the
bridge, which stood near the actual site of the present
Folly Bridge. There was a watch across Hythe Bridge ;
there was another on the ruins of the castle mill, which
Earl Algar had held, under the Domesday survey ; another
at the principal entrance of the castle, which led from the
city. But the extreme cold of the night had driven the
majority of the besiegers to seek shelter in the half-ruined
churches, which, long attuned to the sweet melody of bells
and psalmody, had now become the bivouacs of profane
soldiers.
The Countess Edith, the wife of Robert d’Oyley, now
appeared, shivering in the keen air, and took an affectionate
leave of the Empress, while her teeth chattered the while.
A true woman, she shared her husband’s fortunes for weal
or woe, and had endured the horrors of the siege. Ropes
were brought — Alain glided down one to the ice, and held
it firm. Another rope was passed beneath the armpits of
the Lady Maude. She grasped another in her gloved hand,
to steady her descent.
“ Farewell, true and trusty friend,” she said to Robert
of Oxford ; “ had all been as faithful as thou, I had never
been brought to this pass ; if they hurt thy head, they shall
pay with a life for every hair it contains.”
Then she stepped over the battlements.
For one moment she gave a womanly shudder at the
sight of the blackness below ; then yielding herself to the
care of her trusty knights and shutting her eyes, she was
lowered safely to the surface of the frozen stream, while
young Alain steadied the rope below. At last her feet
touched the ice.
“ Am I on the ground ? ”
THE ESCAPE FROM OXFORD CASTLE
129
“ On the ice, Domina.”
One after another the three knights followed her, and
they descended the stream until it joined the main river at
a farm called “The Wick,” which formerly belonged to one
Ermenold, a citizen of Oxford, immortalised in the abbey
records of Abingdon for his munificence to that community.
Now they had crossed the main channel in safety, not
far below the present railway bridge, and landing, struck
out boldly for the outskirts of Bagley, where the promised
escort was to have met them. But in the darkness and
the snow, they lost their direction, and came at last over
the frozen fields to Kennington, where they indistinctly saw
two or three lights through the fast-falling snow, but dared
not approach them, fearing foes.
Vainly they strove to recover the track. The country was
all alike — all buried beneath one ghastly winding-sheet.
The snow still fell ; the air was calm and keen ; the breath
froze on the mufflers of the lady. Onward they trudged,
for to hesitate was death ; once or twice that ghastly incli-
nation to lie down and sleep was felt.
“ If I could only lie down for one half hour ! ” said
Maude.
“You would never wake again, lady,” said Bertram
of Wallingford ; “we must move on.”
“Nay, I must sleep.”
“For thy son’s sake,” whispered Alain; and she
persevered.
“ Ah ! here is the river ; take care.”
They had nearly fallen into a diversion of the stream at
Sandford ; but they followed the course of the river, until
they reached Kadley, and then they heard the distant bell
of the famous abbey ringing for Matins, which were said
in the small hours of the night.
Here they found some kind of track made by the
passage of cattle, which had been driven towards the town,
and followed it until they saw the lights of the abbey
dimly through the gloom.
K
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BRIAN FITZ- COUNT
Spent, exhausted with their toil, they entered the
precincts of the monastery, on the bed of the stream which,
diverging from the main course a mile above the town,
turned the abbey mills and formed one of its boundaries.
Thus they avoided detention at the gateway of the town,
for they ascended from the stream within the monastery
“ pleasaunce.”
The grand church loomed out of the darkness ; its
windows were dimly lighted. The Matins of St. Thomas
were being sung, and the solemn strains reached the ears
of the weary travellers outside. The outer door of the
nave was unfastened, for the benefit of the laity, who cared
more for devotion than their beds, like the mother of the
famous St. Edmund, Archbishop of Canterbury, a century
later, who used to attend these Matins nightly.
Our present party entered from a different motive. It
was a welcome shelter, and they sank upon an oaken bench
within the door, while the solemn sound of the Gregorian
psalmody rolled on in the choir. Alain meanwhile hastened
to the hospitium to seek aid for the royal guest ; which he
was told he would find in a hostel outside the gates, for
although they allowed female attendance at worship, they
could not entertain women ; it was contrary to their rule
— royal although the guest might be.
CHAPTER XVI
AFTER THE ESCAPE
Meanwhile Brian Fitz-Count himself, with Osric by his
side and a dozen horsemen, rode to and fro On the road
to Oxford, which passed through the forest of Bagley ; for
to halt in the cold was impossible, and to kindle a fire
might attract the attention of foes, as well as of friends.
How they bore that weary night may not be told, but they
were more accustomed to such exposure than we are in
these days.
Again and again did Brian question Osric concerning the
interview with Alain, but of course to no further purpose ;
and they might have remained till daylight had not they
taken a shepherd, who was out to look after his sheep, and
brought him before the Count, pale and trembling, for it was
often death to the rustics to be seized by the armed bands.
“ Hast thou seen any travellers this night ? ”
“I have, my lord, but they were not of this earth.”
“ What then, fool ? ”
“ They were the ghosts of the slain, five of them, all in
white, coming up from the river, where the fight was a
month agone.”
“ And what didst thou do ? ”
“ Hid myself.”
“ Where were they going 1 ”
“Towards Abingdon.”
“ Men or women 1 ”
“ One was muffled up like a lady ; the others were like
men, but all in white.”
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BRIAN FITZ- COUNT
“ My lord,” interrupted Osric, “ I bore thy recommend-
ation that they should wear white garments, the better to
escape observation in the snow, and Alain promised me
that such precaution should be taken : no doubt the
shepherd has seen them.”
“Which way were the ghosts "going, shepherd?”
“They were standing together, when all at once the
boom of the abbey bell came through the air from Abingdon,
and then they made towards the town, to seek their graves,
for there many of the slain were buried.”
“ Bequiescant in pace” said Osric.
“ Peace, Osric ; do not you know that if you pray for a
living man or woman as if they were dead, you hasten
their demise ? ” said Brian sarcastically. “ Let the old fool
go, and we will wend our weary way to the abbey. They
give sanctuary to either party.”
The snow ceased to fall about this time, and a long line
of vivid red appeared low down in the east : the snow
caught the tinge of the coming day, and was reddened
like blood.
“ One would think there had been a mighty battle
there, my squire.”
“It reminds me of the field of Armageddon, of which
I heard the Chaplain talk. I wonder whether it will come
soon.”
“ Dost thou believe in all those priestly pratings ? ”
“My grandfather taught me to do so.”
“ And the rough life of a castle has not yet made thee
forget his homilies ? ”
“No,” sighed Osric.
The sigh touched the hardened man.
“If he has faith, why should I destroy it ? ” Then he
added as if almost against his will —
“ Keep thy faith ; I would I shared it.”
The fortifications of the town, the castle on the Oxford
road, the gateway hard by, came in sight at the next turn
of the road, but Brian avoided them, and sought a gate
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133
lower down which admitted to the abbey precincts, where
he was not so likely to be asked inconvenient questions.
He hade one of his men ring the bell.
The porter looked forth.
“ What manner of men are ye ? ”
“Travellers lost in the snow come to seek the hospit-
ality prescribed by the rule of St. Benedict.”
“ Enter,” and the portal yawned : no names were asked,
no political distinctions recognised.
They stood in the outer quadrangle of the hoar abbey,
the stronghold of Christianity in Wessex for five centuries
past ; and well had it performed its task, and well had it
deserved of England. Founded so long ago that its origin
was even then lost in conflicting traditions, surviving
wave after wave of war, burnt by the Danes, re-
modelled by the Normans — yet this hoary island of prayer
stood in the stream of time unchanged in all its main
features, and, as men thought, destined to stand till the
archangel’s trump sounded the knell of time.
“ They built in marble, built as they
Who thought these stones should see the day
When Christ should come ; and that these walls
Should stand o’er them when judgment calls.”
Alas, poor monks, and alas for the country which lost the
most glorious of her architectural riches, the most august
of her fanes, through the greed of one generation !
“ Have any other travellers sought shelter here during
the night ? ”
“ Five — a lady and four knights ”
“ Where be they 1 ”
“ The lady is lodged in a house without the eastern gate ;
the others are in the guest-house, where thou mayst join
them.”
Have my readers ever seen the outer quadrangle of
Magdalene College ? It is not unlike the square of buildings
in which the Baron and his followers now stood. On three
sides the monastic buildings, with cloisters looking upon a
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BRIAN FITZ- COUNT
green sward, wherein a frozen fountain was surmounted by
a cross ; on the other, the noble church, of which almost
all trace is lost.
In the hospitium or guest-house Brian found Sir Ingelric
of Huntercombe, with Alain and the other attendants upon
the lady’s flight. They met with joy, and seated before
a bright fire which burned upon the hearth, learned the
story of each other’s adventures on that gruesome night,
which, however, had ended well. Osric had gone in charge
of the horses to some stables outside the gates, which
opened upon the market-place, but he now returned, and
Alain greeted him warmly.
Soon the ddjeHner or breakfast was served, of which the
chief feature was good warm soup, very acceptable after
the night they had passed through. Scarcely was it over
when the bells rang for the High Mass of St. Thomas’s Day.
“ Yes, we must all go,” said Brian, “ out of compliment
to our hosts, if for no better reason.”
They entered the church, of which the nave and transepts
were open to the general public, while the choir, as large
as that of a cathedral church, was reserved for the monks
alone. The service was grand and solemn : it began with
a procession, during which holy water was sprinkled over
the congregation, while the monks sang —
“ Asperges me hyssopo et mundabor,
Lava me, et super nivem dealbabor.”
Then followed the chanted Mass at the High Altar.
There were gleaming lights, gorgeous vestments, clouds of
incense. All the symbolism of an age when the worship
of the English people was richer in ceremonial than that of
Continental nations was there. It impressed the minds of
rude warriors who could neither read nor write with the
sense of a mysterious world, other than their own — of
dread realities and awful powers beyond the reach of
mortal warfare. If it appealed rather to the imagination
than the reason, yet it may be thought, it thereby reached
AFTER THE ESCAPE
135
its mark the more surely. The Church was still the salt
of the earth, which preserved the whole mass from utter
corruption, and in a world of violence and wrong, pointed
to a land of peace and joy beyond this transitory scene.
So felt Osric, and his eyes filled with tears as emotions
he could hardly analyse stirred his inmost soul.
And Brian — well, he was as a man who views his
natural face in a glass, and going away, forgets what
manner of man he was.
After Mass the Empress Maude greeted her dear friend
and faithful follower Brian Fitz- Count with no stinted
welcome. She almost fell upon his shoulder, proud woman
though she was, and wept, when assured she should soon
see her son, Prince Henry, at Wallingford, for she was but
a woman after all.
She insisted upon an interview with the Abbot, from
which Brian would fain have dissuaded her, but she took
the bit in her teeth.
After a while that dignitary came, and bowed gracefully,
but not low.
“ Dost thou know, lord Abbot, whom thou hast enter-
tained 1 ”
“ Perchance an Angel unawares : all mortals are equal
within the Church’s gate.”
“Thy true Queen, who will not forget thy hospitality.”
“Nor would King Stephen, did he know that we had
shown it, lady. I reverence thy lofty birth, and wish thee
well for the sake of thy father, who was a great benefactor
to this poor house : further I cannot say ; we know nought
of earthly politics here — our citizenship is above.”
She did not appreciate his doctrines, but turned to
Brian.
“ Have we any gold to leave as a benefaction in return
for this hospitality; it will purchase a Mass, which, doubtless,
we need in these slippery times, when it is difficult
always to walk straight.”
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BRIAN FITZ- COUNT
Brian drew forth his purse.
“ Lady, it needs not,” said the Abbot; “thou art welcome,
so are all the unfortunate, rich or poor, who suffer in these
cruel wars, to which may God soon give an end.”
“ Lay the blame, lord Abbot, on the usurper then, and
pray for his overthrow ; but for him I should have ruled as
my father did, with justice and equity. If thou wishest for
peace, pray for our speedy restoration to our rightful
throne. Farewell.”
So the Empress and her train departed, and crossing the .
river at Culham, made for the distant hills of Synodune,
across a country where the snow had obliterated nearly all
the roads, and even covered the hedges and fences. So
that they were forced to travel very slowly, and at times
came to a “ standstill.”
However, they surmounted all difficulties ; and travelling
along the crest of the hills, where the wind had prevented
the accumulation of much snow, they reached Wallingford
in safety, amidst the loudest of loud rejoicings, where
they were welcomed by Maude d’Oyley, Lady of Walling-
ford— the sister of the Lord of Oxford and wife of Brian.
How shall we relate the festivities of that night ? it seems
like telling an old tale : how the tables groaned with the
weight of the feast, as in the old ballad of Imogene ; how the
minstrels and singers followed after, and none recked of the
multitude of captives who already crowded the dismal
dungeons beneath. Some prisoners taken in fair fight,
some with less justice prisoners held to ransom, their sole
crime being wealth ; others from default of tribute paid to
Brian, be it from ill-will or only from want of means.
But of these poor creatures the gay feasters above
thought not. The contrast between the awful vaults and
cells below, and the gay and lighted chambers above, was
cruel, but they above recked as little as the giddy children
who play in a churchyard think of the dead beneath their
feet.
AFTER THE ESCAPE
137
“ My lady,” said Brian, “ we shall keep our Christmas
yet more merrily, for on the Eve we hope to welcome thy
right trusty brother of Gloucester and thy gallant son.”
The mother’s eyes sparkled.
“My good and trusty subject,” she said, “how thou
dost place me under obligations beyond my power to
repay ? ”
“Nay, my queen, all I have is thine, for thy own and
thy royal father’s sake, who was to me a father indeed.”
The festivities were not prolonged to a very late hour ;
nature must have its way, and the previous night had been
a most trying one, as our readers are well aware. That
night was a night of deep repose.
On the following day came the news that Oxford Castle
had surrendered, and that Bobert d’Oyley, lord thereof,
was prisoner to Stephen ; it was at first supposed that the
king would follow his rival to Wallingford, but he preferred
keeping his Christmas in the castle he had taken.
Wallingford was a hard nut to crack.
It was Christmas Eve, and the Empress stood by the
side of the lord of the castle, on the watch-towers ; the
two squires, Alain and Osric, waited reverently behind.
The scenery around has already been described in our
opening chapter. The veil of winter was over it, but the
sun shone brightly, and its beams glittered on the ice of the
river and the snow-clad country beyond : one only change
there was — the forts on the Crowmarsh side of the stream,
erected in a close of the parish of Crowmarsh — then and
now called Barbican ; they were so strong as to be deemed
impregnable, and were now held against Brian by the
redoubtable Eanulph, Earl of Chester. The garrisons of the
two fortresses, so near each other, preyed in turn on the
country around, and fought wherever they met — to keep
their hands in ; but they were now keeping “ The Truce of
God,” in honour of Christmas.
“ It is a lovely day. May it be the harbinger of better
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BRIAN FITZ- COUNT
fortune,” said Maude. “When do you think they will
arrive ? ”
“ They slept at Reading Abbey last night, so there is
little doubt they will be here very soon.”
“ If they started early they might be in sight now : ah,
God and St. Mary be praised ! there they be. Is not that
their troop along the road ? ”
A band, with streamlets gay and pennons fair, was
indeed approaching the gates of the town from the south,
by the road which led from Reading, along the southern
bank of the Thames.
“ To horse ! to horse ! ” said the Empress ; “ let us fly to
meet them.”
“ Nay, my liege, they will be here anon — almost before
our horses could be caparisoned to appear in fit state
before the citizens of my town.” The fact was, Brian had
a soldier’s dislike of a scene, and would fain get the
meeting over within the walls.
And the royal mother contented herself with standing
on the steps of the great hall to receive her gallant son,
Henry Plantagenet, the future King of England, destined
to restore peace to the troubled land, but whose sun was
to set in such dark clouds, owing to his quarrel with the
Church, and the cruel misbehaviour of his faithless wife
and rebellious sons.
But we must not anticipate. The gallant boy was at
hand, and his mother clasped him to the maternal breast :
“ so greatly comforted,” said the chronicler, “ that she
forgot all the troubles and mortifications she had endured,
for the joy she had of his presence.” Then she turned to
her right trusty brother, and wept on his neck.
The following day was the birthday of the “ Prince of
Peace,” and these children of war kept it in right honour.
They attended Mass at the Church of St. Mary’s in the
town in great state, and afterwards banqueted in the Castle
hall with multitudes of guests. Meanwhile Ranulph, Earl
of Chester, had returned home to keep the feast ; but his
AFTER THE ESCAPE
139
representatives kept it right well, and the two parties
actually sent presents to each other, and wished mutual
good cheer.
The feast was over, and the maskers dropped their masks,
and turned to the business of life in right earnest — that
was war, only war. The Empress Maude, with her son,
under the care of her brother, shortly left Wallingford for
Bristol, where the young prince remained for four years,
under the care of his uncle, who had brought him up.
But all around the flames of war broke out anew, and
universal bloodshed returned. It was a mere gory chaos :
no great battles, no decisive blows ; only castle against
castle, all through the land, as at Wallingford and Crow-
marsh. Each baron delved the soil for his dungeons, and
raised his stern towers to heaven. All was pillage and
plunder ; men fought wherever they met ; every man’s
hand was against every man ; peaceful villages were burnt
daily ; lone huts, isolated farms, were no safer ; merchants
scarcely dared to travel, shops to expose their wares ; men
refused to till the fields for others to reap ; and they said
that God and His Saints were fast asleep. The land was
filled with death ; corpses rotted by the sides of the roads ;
women and children took sanctuary in the churches and
churchyards, to which they removed their valuables. But
the bands of brigands and murderers, who, like vultures,
scented the quarry afar, and crowded from all parts of the
Continent into England — unhappy England — as to a prey
delivered over into their hands, did not always respect
sanctuary. Famine followed ; men had nought to eat ; it
was even said that they ate the bodies of the dead like
cannibals. Let us hope this ghastly detail is untrue, but we
do not feel sure it is ; the pangs of hunger are so dreadful
to bear.
Then came pestilence in the train of famine, and claimed
its share of victims. And so the weary years went on —
twelve long years of misery and woe.
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BRIAN FITZ- COUNI
Summer had come — hot and dry. There had been no
rain for a month. It was the beginning of July, in the
year 1142. Fighting was going on in England in general ;
at Wilton, near Salisbury, in particular. The king was
there : he had turned the nunnery of that place into a
castle, driving out the holy sisters, and all the flock of the
wounded and poor to whom, with earnest piety, they were
ministering. The king put up bulwark and battlement,
and thought he had done well, when on the 1st of July
came Bobert of Gloucester from Bristol, and sat down
before the place to destroy it.
The king and his brother — the Papal legate, the fighting
Bishop of Winchester, the turncoat — were both there, and
after a desperate defence, were forced to escape by a secret
passage, ■ and fly by night. Their faithful seneschal,
William Martel, Lord of Shirburne, and a great enemy
and local rival of Brian, remained behind to protract the
defence, and engage the attention of the besiegers until
his king had had time to get far enough away with his
affectionate brother Henry ; and his self-devotion was not
in vain, but he paid for it by the loss of his own liberty.
He was taken prisoner after a valiant struggle, and sent
to Wallingford, to be under the custody of Brian Fitz-Count,
his enemy and rival.
CHAPTEB XV II
LIFE AT WALLINGFORD CASTLE
In sketching the life of a mediaeval castle, we have dwelt
too much upon the brighter side of the picture. There was
a darker one, contrasting with the outward pomp and
circumstance as the dungeons with the gay halls above.
What then was the interior of those dark towers, which
we contemplate only in their ruined state ? Too often, the
surrounding peasants looked at them with affright : the
story of Blue-Beard is not a mere tale, it is rather a veri-
table tradition : what was the lord to his vassals, whom
his own wife regarded with such great fear ? We know
one of the brood by the civil process issued against him —
Gilles de Eetz — the torturer of children. It has been said
that the “ Front de Boeuf ” of Sir Walter Scott is but a
poor creature, a feeble specimen of what mediaeval barons
could be. A more terrible portrait has been given in
recent days by Erckmann-Chatrian, in their story, The
Forest House.
And such, we regret to say, by degrees did Brian Fitz-
Count become. Few men can stand the test of absolute
power, and the power of a mediaeval lord was almost
absolute in his own domain.
And the outbreak of civil war, by loosening the bonds
of society, gave him the power of doing this, so that it was
soon said that Wallingford Gastle was little better than a
den of brigands.
The very construction of these old castles, so far as one
can see them, tells us far more than books can : men-at-
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BRIAN FITZ- COUNT
arms, pages, valets, all were shut in for the night, sleeping
in common in those vaulted apartments. The day summoned
them to the watch-towers and battlements, where they
resembled the eagle or hawk, soaring aloft in hope of see-
ing their natural prey.
Nor was it often long before some convoy of merchan-
dise passing along the high road, some well appointed
travellers or the like, tempted them forth on their swift
horses, lance in hand, to cry like the modern robber, “ Your
money or your life,” or in sober truth, to drag their prisoners
to their dungeons, and hold them to ransom, in default of
which they amused themselves by torturing them.
Such inmates of the castles were only happy when they
got out upon their adventures — and as in the old fable of
“ The Frogs and the Boys,” — what was sport to them was
death to their neighbours.
It was eventide, the work of the day was over, and
Brian was taking counsel with Malebouche, who had risen
by degrees to high command amongst the troopers, although
unknighted. Osric was present, and sat in an embrasure
of the window.
“ A good day’s work, Malebouche,” said Brian ; “ that
convoy of merchandise going from Beading to Abingdon
was a good prize — our halls will be the better for their
gauds, new hangings of tapestry, silks, and the like ; but
as we are deficient in women to admire them, I would
sooner have had their value in gold.”
“ There is this bag of rose nobles, which we took from
the body of the chief merchant.”
“Well, it will serve as an example to others, who travel
by by-roads to avoid paying me tribute, and rob me of my
dues. Merchants from Beading have tried to get to
Abingdon by that road over Cholsey Hill before.”
“ They will hardly try again if they hear of this.”
“ At least these will not — you have been too prompt with
them ; did any escape ? ”
LIFE AT WALLINGFORD CASTLE
143
“ I think not ; my fellows lanced them as they fled,
which was the fate of all, as we were well mounted, save
a lad who stumbled and fell, and they hung him in sport
for the sake of variety. They laughed till the tears stood in
their eyes at his quaint grimaces.” 1
Brian did not seem to heed this pleasant story. Osric
moved uneasily in his seat, but strove to repress feelings
which, after all, were less troublesome than of yore ; all at
once he spied a sight which drove merchants and all from
his mind.
“ My lord, here is Alain.”
“ Where ? ”
“ Just dismounting in the courtyard.”
“ Call to him to come up at once ; he will have news
from Wilton.”
Osric leant out of the narrow window, which in summer
was always open.
“ Alain ! Alain ! ” he cried, “ come up hither, my lord
is impatient for your tidings.”
Alain waved back a friendly greeting and hurried up
the stairs.
“Joy, my Lord, joy; thine enemy is in thy hands.”
“ Which one, my squire ? I have too many enemies to
remember all.”
“ William Martel, Lord of Shirburne.”
“ Ah, now we shall get Shirburne ! ” cried Osric.
“ Silence, boys ! ” roared Brian; “ now tell me all : where
he was taken, and what has become of him.”
“ He was taken by Earl Robert at Wilton, and will be
here in an hour ; you may see him from the battlements now.
The good Earl has sent him to you to keep in durance,
and sent me to command the escort : I only left them on
the downs — they are descending the hills even now; I
galloped forward to ‘bring the good news.’”
1 Rien de plus gai que nos vieux contes — ils n’ont que trois plaisanteries
— le desespoir du mari, les cris du battu, la grimace du pendu : au troisieme
la gaiete est au comble, on se tient les cotes. — Michelet.
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BRIAN FITZ- COUNT
“By our Lady, I am indeed happy. Alain, here is a
purse of rose nobles for thee ; poor as I am, thy news are
all too good. Send the gaolers to me ; have a good dark
dungeon prepared ; we must humble his spirits.”
“We are getting too full below, my lord.”
“ Orders are given for another set to be dug out at once,
the architect only left me to-day ; it is to be called Cloere
Brien — or Brian’s Close, and the first guest shall be William
Martel ; there shall he rot till he deliver up Shirburne
and all its lands to me in perpetuity. The Castle of
Shirburne is one of the keys of the Chilterns.”
“ Now, my lord, they are in sight — look !
And from the windows they saw a troop of horse
approaching Wallingford, over Cholsey Common.
“Let us don our robes of state to meet them,” said
Brian ; and he threw on a mantle over his undress ; then
he descended, followed by his two pages, and paced the
battlements, till the trumpets were blown which announced
the arrival of the cortege.
Brian showed no womanly curiosity to feast his eyes
with the sight of a captive he was known to hate, but
repaired to the steps of the great hall, and stood there,
Alain on one side, Osric on the other ; and soon the
leading folk in the castle collected about them.
The troop of horse trotted over the three drawbridges,
and drew rein in front of the Baron; then wheeling to
right and left, disclosed their prisoner.
“ I salute thee, William Martel, Lord of Shirburne ; my
poor castle is too much honoured by thy presence.”
“ Faith, thou mayst well say so,” said the equally proud
and fierce captive. “ I take it thou hast had few prisoners
before higher in rank than the wretched Jews you torture
for their gold ; but I trust you know how to treat a noble.”
“That indeed we do, especially one like thyself; not
that we are overawed by thy grandeur ; the castle which
has entertained thy rightful sovereign may be quite good
enough for thee. Companions thou shalt have, if but the
LIFE AT WALLINGFORD CASTLE
145
toad and adder ; light enough to make darkness visible,
until such time as thy ransom be paid, or thou submit to
thy true Queen.”
“ To Henry’s unworthy child — never. Name thy ransom.”
“ The Castle of Shirburne and all things pertaining
thereto.”
“ Never shall it be thine.”
“ Then here shalt thou rot. Tustain, prepare a chamber
— one of the dungeons in the north tower, until a more
suitable one be builded. And meanwhile it may please thee
to learn that we purpose a ride to look at your Shirburne
folk, and see the lands which shall be ours ; this very night
we may light a bonfire or two to amuse them.”
And they led the captive away.
Now lest this should be thought a gross exaggeration, it
may as well be said that the ungovernable savagery of this
contest, the violent animosities engendered, did lead the
nobility so called, the very chief of the land, to forget their
chivalry, and treat their foes, not after the fashion of the
Black Prince and his captive, the King of France, but in
the brutal fashion we have described.
And probably Brian would have fared just as badly at
William Martel’s hands, had their positions been reversed.
“ Trumpeter, blow the signal to horse ; let the Brabanters
prepare to ride, and the Black Troopers of Ardennes — the
last comers. We will ride to-night, Alain. Art thou too
wearied to go with us 1 ”
“Nay, my lord, ready and willing.”
“ And Osric — it will refresh thee ; we start in half an
hour — give the horses corn.”
In half an hour they all rode over a new bridge of boats
lower down the stream, and close under the ordnance of the
castle,1 for the forts at Crowmarsh commanded the lower
Bridge of Stone. They were full three hundred in number
— very miscellaneous in composition. There was a new
troop of a hundred Brabanters ; another of so-called Free
1 i.e. Mangonels, arbalasts, and the like.
L
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BRIAN FITZ- COUNT
Companions, numbering nearly the same. Scarce a hundred
were Englishmen, in any sense of the word, neither Anglo-
Norman nor Anglo-Saxon — foreigners with no more dis-
position to pity the unfortunate natives than the buccaneers
of later date had to pity the Spaniards, or even the shark
to pity the shrinking flesh he snaps at.
Just before reaching Bensington, which paid tribute to
both sides, and was exempt from fire and sword from' either
Wallingford or Crowmarsh, a troop from the latter place
came in sight.
Trumpets were blown on both sides, stragglers recalled
into line, and the two bodies of horsemen charged each
other with all the glee of two bodies of football players
in modern times, and with little more thought or care.
But the Wallingford men were strongest, and after a
brief struggle the Crowmarsh troopers were forced to fly.
They were not pursued : Brian had other business in hand ;
it was a mere friendly charge.
Only struggling on the ground were some fifty men
and horses, wounded or dying, and not a few dead.
Brian looked after Osric with anxiety.
The youth’s bright face was flushed with delight and
animation. He was returning a reddened sword to the
scabbard ; he had brought down his man, cleaving him to
the chine, himself unhurt.
Brian smiled grimly.
“Now for Alain,” he said ; “ah, there he is pursuing
these Crowmarsh fellows. We have no time to waste —
sound the recall, now onward, for the Chilterns.”
Alain rejoined them.
“ Thou art wasting time.”
“My foe fled ; Osric has beaten me to-day.”
“ Plenty of opportunity for redressing the wrong — now
onward.”
They passed through Bensington. The gates — for every
large village had its walls and gates as a matter of necessity
— opened and shut for them in grim silence ; they did no
LIFE AT WALLINGFORD CASTLE
147
harm there. They passed by the wood afterwards called
“Iiumbold’s Copse,” and then got into the territory of
Shirburne, for so far as Britwell did William Martel exact
tribute, and offer such protection as he was able.
From this period all was havoc and destruction — all
one grim scene of fire and carnage. They fired every rick,
every barn, every house ; they slew everything they met.
And Osric was as bad as the rest — we do not wonder at
Alain.
Then they reached Watlington, “the wattled town,”
situated in a hollow of the hills. Its gates were secured, and
it was surrounded by a ditch, a mound, and the old British
defence of wattles, or stakes pointed outwards.
Here they paused.
“ It is too strong to be taken by assault,” said the Baron.
“ Osric, go to the gate with just half a dozen, who have
English tongues in their heads, and ask for shelter and
hospitality.”
Osric, to his credit, hesitated.
Brian reddened — he could not bear the lad he loved to
take a more moral tone than himself.
“ Must I send Alain ? ”
Osric went, and feigning to be belated, asked admittance,
but he did not act it well.
“ Who are you ? whence do ye come ? what mean the
fires we see ? ”
“ Alain, go and help him ; he cannot tell a fair lie,” said
Brian.
Alain arriving, made answer, “ The men of Wallingford
are out — we are flying from Britwell for our lives — haste
or they will overtake us — we are only a score.”
The poor fools opened, and were knocked on the head at
once for their pains.
The whole band now galloped up and rushed in.
“Fire every house. After you have plundered them all,
if you find mayor and burgesses, take them for ransom ; slay
the rest.”
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BRIAN FITZ- COUNT
The scene which followed was shocking; but in this
wretched reign it might be witnessed again and again all
over England. But many things shocked Osric afterwards
when he had time to think.
Enough of this. We have only told what we have told
because it is essential to the plot of our story, that the
scenes should be understood which caused so powerful a
reaction in Osric — afterwards.
Laden with spoil, with shout and song, the marauders
returned from their raid. Along the road which leads from
Watlington to the south, with the range of the Chilterns
looking down from the east, and the high land which runs
from Kumbold’s Copse to Brightwell Salome on the west,
they drove their cattle and carried their plunder ; whilst
they recounted their murderous exploits, and made night
hideous with the defiant bray of trumpets and their discord-
ant songs.
And so in the fire and excitement of the moment the
sufferings of the poor natives were easily forgotten,
or served to the more violent and cruel as zest to their
enjoyment.
Was it so with our Osric % Could the grandson of Sex-
wulf, the heir of a line of true Englishmen, so forget the
lessons of his boyhood ? Alas, my reader, such possibilities
lurk in our fallen nature !
“Ah, when shall come the time
When war shall be no more ?
When lust, oppression, crime,
Shall flee Thy Face before ? ”
We must wait until the advent of the Prince of Peace.
They got back to Wallingford at last. The gates were
opened, there was a scene of howling excitement, and then
they feasted and drank until the small hours of the night ;
after which they went to bed, three or four in one small
chamber, and upon couches of the hardest — in recesses of
the wall, or sometimes placed, like the berths of a ship, one
over the other — the robbers slept.
LIFE AT WALLINGFORD CASTLE
149
For in what respect were they better than modern
highwaymen or pirates ?
Osric and Alain lay in the same chamber.
“ How hast thou enjoyed the day, Osric ? ”
“ Capitally, but I am worn out.”
“ You will not sleep so soundly even now as the fellow
you brought down so deftly in that first skirmish. You
have got your hand in at last.”
Osric smiled with gratified vanity — he was young and
craved such glory.
“Good-night, Alain.” He could hardly articulate the
words from fatigue, and Alain had had even a harder day.
They slept almost as soundly as the dead they had
left behind them ; no spectres haunted them and disturbed
their repose ; conscience was hardened, scarred as with a hot
iron, but her time was yet to come for Osric.
CHAPTER XVIII
BROTHER ALPHEGE
From the abode of strife and turmoil to the home of peace,
from the house of the world to the house of religion,
from the Castle of Wallingford to the Abbey of Dorchester,
do we gladly conduct our readers, satiated, we doubt not,
with scenes of warfare.
What wonder, when the world was given up to such
scenes, that men and women, conscious of higher aspirations,
should fly to the seclusion of the monastic life, afar from
“ Unloving souls with deeds of ill,
And words of angry strife.”
And what a blessing for that particular age that there were
such refuges, thickly scattered throughout the land — verit-
able cities of refuge. It. was not the primary idea of these
orders that they should be benevolent institutions, justi-
fying their existence by the service rendered to the
commonwealth. The primary idea was the service of God,
and the salvation of the particular souls, who fled from a
world lying in wickedness and the shadow of death, to take
sweet counsel together, and walk in the House of God as
friends.
Later on came a nobler conception of man’s duty to man ;
and thence sprang the active orders, such as the Friars
or Sisters of Mercy, as distinguished from the cloistered
or contemplative orders.
Of course, in the buildings of such a society, the Church
was the principal object — as the ruins of Tintern or Glas-
BROTHER ALPHEGE
151
tonbury show, overshadowing all the other buildings,
dwarfing them into insignificance. Upon this object all
the resources of mediaeval art were expended. The lofty
columns, the mysterious lights and shadows of a Gothic
fane, the sculptures, the statues, the shrines, the rich
vestments, the painted glass — far beyond aught we can
produce, the solemn music, — all this they lavished on the
Church as the house of prayer —
‘ ‘ It is the house of prayer,
Wherein Thy servants meet ;
And Thou, 0 God, art there,
Thy hallowed flock to greet.”
Here they met seven times daily, to recite their offices, as
also at the midnight office, when only the professed brethren
were present. In these active times men may consider
so much time spent in church a great waste of time, but
we cannot judge other generations by our own ideas. A
very sharp line was then drawn between the Church and
the world, and they who chose the former possessed a far
greater love for Divine worship than we see around us
now, coupled with a most steadfast belief in its efficacy.
“ Blessed are They who dwell in Thy house ; they will be
alway praising Thee,” was the language of their hearts.
Here men who had become the subjects of intense
grief — from whom death, perhaps, had removed their earthly
solace — the partners of their sorrow or joy — found refuge
when the sun of this world was set. Here, also, studious
men, afar from the clamour and din of arms, preserved for
us the wisdom of the ancients. Here the arts and sciences
lived on, when nought save war filled the minds of men
outside. Well has it been said, that for the learning of
the nineteenth century to revile the monastic system is
for the oak to revile the acorn from which it sprang.
But most of all, when the shadow of a great horror of
himself and his past fell upon a man, how blessed to have
such an institution as a mediaeval monastery wherein to
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BRIAN FITZ- COUNT
hide the stricken head, and to learn submission to the
Divine Will.
Such a home had Wulfnoth found at Dorchester Abbey.
The year of his novitiate had passed, and he had won
the favour of his monastic superiors. We do not say he
had always been as humble as a novice should, or that he
never, like Lot’s wife, looked back again to Sodom, but
the good had triumphed, and the day came for his election
as a brother.
Every day after the Chapter Mass which followed Terce,
the daily “Chapter” was held, wherein all matters of
discipline were settled, correction, if needed, administered,
novices or brethren admitted by common consent, and all
other weighty business transacted. Here they met four
centuries later, when they affixed their reluctant seal to
their own dissolution, to avoid worse consequences.
It was here that, after the ordinary business was over,
the novice Alphege, the once sanguinary Wulfnoth, rose
with a calm and composed exterior, but with a beating
heart, to crave admission into the order by taking the life
vows.
The Abbot signed to him to speak.
“I, Wulfnoth the novice, crave admission to the full
privileges and prayers of the order, by taking the vows for
life, as a brother professed.”
There was silence for a space.
Then the Abbot spoke —
“ Hast thou duly considered the solemn step ? Canst
thou leave the world behind thee — its friendships and its
enmities 1 and hast thou considered what hard and stern
things we endure ? ”
“I have, Father Abbot.”
“ And the yet harder and sterner discipline which awaits
the transgressor ? ”
“ None of these things move me : I am prepared to bear
yet harsher and sterner things, if so be I may save my
soul.”
BROTHER ALPHEGE
153
“The Lord Jesus Christ so perform in you what for
His love’s sake you promise, that you may have His grace
and life eternal.”
“ Amen,” said all present.
The rule of the order was then read aloud.
“ Here,” said the Abbot, “ is the law under which thou
desirest to serve : if thou canst observe it, enter ; but if
thou canst not, freely depart.”
“ I will observe it, God being my helper.”
“ Doth any brother know any just cause or impediment
why Alphege the novice should not be admitted to our
brotherhood ? ”
None was alleged.
“Do you all admit him to a share in your sacrifices
and prayers ? ”
The hands were solemnly raised.
“ It is enough : prepare with prayer and fasting for the
holy rite,” said the Abbot.
For there was of course a solemn form of admission into
the order yet to be gone through in the Church, which we
have not space to detail.
It was not necessary that a monk should take Holy
Orders, yet it was commonly done ; and dismissing the
subject in a few words, we will simply say that Wulfnoth
took deacon’s orders after he had taken the life vows, and
later on was ordained priest by Bishop Alexander of
Lincoln, aforesaid.
His lot in life was now fixed : no longer was he in any
danger from the Lord of Wallingford ; nor could he execute
vengeance with sword and woe for the household stricken
so sorely by that baron’s hands at Compton on the downs.
It was over — he left it all to Him Who once said, “Vengeance
is Mine, I will repay.” Nor mindful of his own sins, did
he pray for such vengeance. He left it, and strove to pray
for Brian.
One bright day at the close of July the Abbot called him
to ride with him, for the order was not strictly a cloistered
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BRIAN FI TZ- COUNT
one, nor could it indeed be ; they had their landed estates,
their tenantry, their farms to look after. The offices were
numerous, of necessity, and it was the policy of the order
to give each monk, if possible, some special duty or office.
Almost all they ate or drank was produced at home. The
corn grew on their own land ; they had their own mill ;
the brethren brewed, baked, or superintended lay brothers
who did so. Other brethren were tailors, shoemakers for
the community; others gardeners; others, as we have seen,
scribes and illuminators; others kept the accounts — no small
task.1 In short, none led the idle life commonly assigned
in popular estimation.
They rode forth then, the Abbot Alured and Alphege,
the new brother. First into the town without the gates, far
larger then than now, it was partly surrounded by walls,
partly protected by the Rivers Isis and Tame ; but within
the space was a crowd of inhabitants dwelling in houses,
or rather huts ; dwelling even in tents, like modern gypsies,
crowding the space within the walls, with good reason, for
no man’s life was safe in the country, and here was sanctuary !
EvenBrian Fitz-CountwouldrespectDorchester Abbey: even
if some marauding baron assailed the town, there was still the
abbey church, or even the precincts for temporary shelter.
But food was scarce, and here lay the difficulty. The
abbey revenues were insufficient, for many of the farms
had been burnt in the nightly raids, and rents were ill-
paid. Everything was scarce : many a hapless mother, many
a new-born babe, died from sheer want of the things
necessary to save ; the strong lived through it, the weak
sank under it : there may have been those who found
comfort, and said it was “ the survival of the fittest.”
Day by day was the dole given forth at the abbey gates ;
day by day the hospitium was very crowded. The hospitaller
was at his wits’ end. And the old infirmarer happening to
die just then, folk said, “It was the worry.”
1 Many monastic rolls of accounts remain, and their minuteness is even
startling.
BROTHER ALPHEGE
155
“ Who is sufficient for these things'?” said Abbot Alured
to his companion, as they rode through the throng and
emerged upon the road leading to the hamlet of Brude-
cott (Burcot) and Cliffton (Clifton Hampden).
Their dress was a white cassock under a black cloak,
with a hood covering the head and neck and reaching to
the shoulders, having under it breeches, vest, white stockings
and shoes ; a black cornered cap, not unlike the college cap
of modern days, completed the attire.
“Tell me, brother,” said the Abbot, “what is thy
especial vocation ? what office wouldst thou most desire to
hold amongst us ? ”
“ I am little capable of discharging any weighty burden :
thou knowest I have been a man of war.”
“ And he who once gave wounds should now learn to
heal them. Our brother the infirmarer has lately departed
this life, full of good works — would not that be the office
for thee ? ”
“ I think I could discharge it better than I could most
others.”
“ It is well, then it shall be thine ; it will be onerous
just now. Ah me, when will these wars be over 1 ”
“ Methinks there was a great fire amongst the Chilterns
last night — a thick cloud of smoke lingers there yet.”
“ It is surely Watlington — yes it is Watlington ; they
have burned it. What can have chanced ? it is under the
protection of Shirburne.”
“ I marvel we have had none of the people here, to
seek hospitality and aid.”
They arrived now at Brudecott, a hamlet on the Thames.
One Nicholas de Brudecott had held a mansion here, one
knight’s fee of the Bishop of Lincoln ; but the house had
been burnt by midnight marauders. The place was desolate :
on the fields untilled a few poor people lived in huts,
protected by their poverty.
They rode on to Cliffton, where the Abbot held three
“ virgates ” of land, with all the farm buildings and utensils
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BRIAN FITZ- COUNT
for their cultivation ; the latter had escaped devastation,
perhaps from the fact it was church property, although
even that was not always respected in those days.
Upon the rock over the river stood the rustic church.
Wulfnoth had often served it as deacon, attending the
priestly monk who said Mass each Sunday there, for
Dorchester took the tithes and did the duty.
Here they crossed the river by a shallow ford where
the bridge now stands, and rode through Witeham
(Wittenham), where the Abbot had business connected with
the monastery. The same desertion of the place impressed
itself upon their minds. Scarcely a living being was seen ;
only a few old people, unable to bring themselves to for-
sake their homes, lingered about half-ruined cottages. The
parish priest yet lived in the tower of the church, unwilling
to forsake his flock, although half the village was in ruins,
and nearly all the able-bodied had taken refuge in the towns.
They were on the point of crossing the ford beneath
Synodune Hill, situated near the junction of Tame and Isis,
when the Abbot suddenly conceived the desire of ascending
the hills and viewing the scene of last night’s conflagration
from thence. They did so, and from the summit of the
eastern hill, within the entrenchment which still exists,
and has existed there from early British times, marked the
cloud of black smoke which arose from the ruins of
Watlington.
“What can have happened to the town — it is well
defended with palisades and trench ? ”
Just then a powerful horseman, evidently a knight at
the least, attended by two squires, rode over the entrance
of the vallum, and ascended to the summit of the hill.
He saluted the Abbot with a cold salute, and then entered
into conversation with his squires.
“ It is burning even yet, Osric; dost thou mark the black
smoke ? ”
“ Thatch smoulders a long time, my lord,” replied the
squire addressed.
BROTHER ALPHEGE
157
The Abbot Alured happened to look round at Wulfnoth;
he was quivering with some suppressed emotion like an
aspen leaf, and his hand involuntarily sought the place
where the hilt of his sword should have been had he
possessed one.
“ What ails thee, brother ? ” he said.
“It is the destroyer of my home and family, Brian
Fitz-Count,” and Wulfnoth drew the cowl over his head.
The Abbot rode down the hill; he felt as if he were on
the edge of a volcano, and putting his hand on his com-
panion’s rein, forced him to accompany him.
It was strange that Wulfnoth did not also recognise
his own son.
CHAPTER XIX
IN THE LOWEST DEPTHS
The morning watch looked forth from the summit of the
lofty keep, which rose above Wallingford Castle, to spy the
dawning day. From that elevation of two hundred feet
he saw the light of the summer dawn break forth over the
Chiltern Hills in long streaks of azure, and amber light
flecked with purple and scarlet. The stream below caught
the rays, and assumed the congenial hue of blood ; the
sleepy town began to awake beyond the castle precincts ;
light wreaths of smoke to ascend from roof after roof —
we can hardly say of those days chimney after chimney ;
the men of the castle began to move, for there was no
idleness under Brian’s rule ; boats arrived by the stream
bearing stores from the dependent villages above and
below, or even down from Oxford and up from Reading,
for the river was a great highway in those days.
Ah, how like the distant view was to that we now
behold from the lessened height of the ruined keep ! The
everlasting hills were the same ; the river flowed in the
same channel : and yet how unlike, for the cultivated fields
of the present day were mainly wood and marsh ; dense
forests of bush clothed the Chilterns ; Cholsey Common,
naked and bare, stretched on to the base of the downs ; but
on the west were the vast forests which had filled the vale
of White Horse in earlier times, and now were but
slightly broken into clearings, and diversified with hamlets.
But still more unlike, the men who began to wake into
life !
IN THE LOWEST DEPTHS
159
The gaolers were busy with the light breakfasts of
their prisoners, or attending to their cells, which they were
forced sometimes to clean out, to prevent a pestilence ; the
soldiers were busy attending to their horses, and scouring
their arms ; the cooks were busy providing for so many
mouths; the butler was busy with his wines; the armourers
and blacksmiths with mail and weapons ; the treasurer
was busy with his accounts, counting the value of last
night’s raid and assigning his share of prize-money to each
raider, for all had their share, each according to rank, and
so “moss-trooping” was highly popular.
Even the Chaplain, as he returned from his hastily said
Mass, which few attended — only, indeed, the Lady of the
Castle, Maude d’Oyley, and her handmaidens — received
his “bonus” as a bribe to Heaven, and pocketed it
without reflecting that it was the price of blood. He was
the laziest individual in the castle. Few there confessed
their sins, and fewer still troubled him in any other
spiritual capacity. Still Brian kept him for the sake of
“being in form,” as moderns say, and had purposely
sought out an accommodating conscience.
In the terrace, which looked over the glacis towards the
Thames, of which the remains with one window in situ
may still be seen, was the bower of Maude d’Oyley, wife
of Brian Fitz- Count and sister of the Lord of Oxford
Castle, as we have before observed. It was called otherwise
“the solar chamber;” perhaps because it was best fitted with
windows for the admission of the sunlight, the openings in
the walls being generally rather loopholes than windows.
The passion for great reception-rooms was as strong in
mediaeval days as in our own, and the family apartments
suffered for it, — being generally small and low, — while the
banqueting -hall was lofty and spacious, and the Gothic
windows, which looked into the inner quadrangle, were of
ample proportions. But the “ladye’s bower” on the
second floor consisted of, first an ante-chamber, where a
handmaiden always waited within hearing of the little
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BRIAN FITZ- COUNT
silver hand -bell ; then a bow6r or boudoir ; then the
bedroom proper. All these rooms were hung with rich
tapestry, worked by the lady and her handmaidens. For
in those days, when books were scarce, and few could read,
the work of the needle and the loom was the sole allevia-
tion of many a solitary hour.
The windows looked over the river, and were of horn,
not very transparent, only translucent ; the outer world
could but be dimly discerned in daylight.
There was a hearth at one end of the bower, and
“ dog-irons ” upon it for the reception of the logs, of which
fires were chiefly composed, for there was as yet no coal
in use.
There were two “ curule ” chairs, that is, chairs in the
form of St. Andrew’s Cross, with cushions between the
upper limbs, and no backs ; there were one or two very
small round tables for the reception of trifles, and “leaf-
tables ” between the windows. No one ever sat on these
“ curule ” chairs save those of exalted rank : three-legged
stools were good enough for ladies in waiting, and the like.
The hangings, which concealed the bare walls, were
very beautiful. On one set was represented Lazarus and
Dives ; Father Abraham appeared very much in the style
of a mediaeval noble, and on his knee, many sizes smaller,
sat Lazarus. In uncomfortable proximity to their seats
was a great yawning chasm, and smoke looking very
substantial, as represented in wool-work, arose thence,
while some batlike creatures, supposed to be fiends,
sported here and there. On the other side lay Dives in
the midst of rosy flames of crimson wool, and his tongue,
which was stretched out for the drop of water, was of such
a size, that one wondered how it ever could have found
space in the mouth. But for all this, the lesson taught by
the picture was not a bad one for the chambers of barons,
if they would but heed it ; it is to be feared it was little
heeded just then in Wallingford Castle.
There was no carpet on the floor, only rushes, from the
IN THE LOWEST DEPTHS
161
marshes. The Countess sat on her “ curule ” chair in front
of the blazing fire. Three maidens upon three-legged
stools around her were engaged on embroidery. They
were all of high rank, entrusted to her guardianship, for
she liked to surround herself with blooming youth. She
was old, — her face was wrinkled, her eyes were dull, — but
she had a sweet smile, and was quite an engaging old lady,
although, of course, with the reserve which became, or was
supposed to become, her high rank.
A timid knock at the door, and another maiden
entered.
“Jeannette, thou art late this evening.”
“ I was detained in Dame Ursula’s room ; she needed
my help, lady.”
“ Wherefore V ’
“ To attend to the wounded of last night’s raid.”
“ Ah, yes, we have heard but few particulars, and would
fain learn more. Send and see whether either of the
young squires Osric or Alain can come and give us the
details.”
And shortly Osric entered, dressed in his handsomest
tunic — the garb of peace, and properly washed and combed
for the presence of ladies.
He bowed reverently to the great dame, of whom he
stood in more awe than of her stern husband : he was of
that awkward age when lads are always shy before ladies.
But her kind manner cheered him.
“So thou didst ride last night, Osric?”
“I did, my lady.”
“Come, tell us all about it.”
“We started, as thou knowest, soon after the arrival of
the prisoner William Martel, to harry his lands.”
“We all saw you start; and I hear the Crowmarsh
people saw you too.”
“ And assailed us at Bensington.”
“ And now tell me, my Osric, didst thou not slay one
of Lord Ranulph’s people?”
M
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BRIAN FITZ- COUNT
“ 1 did, by my good fortune, and his ill-luck.”
“ And so thou shouldst receive the meed of valour from
the fair. Come, what sayest thou, ladies ?”
“ He should indeed ; he is marvellous young to be so
brave.”
“We are short of means to reward our brave knights
and squires, but take this ring;” and she gave one con-
taining a valuable gem ; “ and we only grieve it is not of
more worth.”
So Osric, encouraged, continued his tale ; and those fair
ladies — and fair they were — laughed merrily at his narration
of the burning of Watlington, and would have him spare
no details.
“ Thou hast done well, my Osric. Come, thou wilt be a
knight ; thou dost not now pine for the forest ?”
“Not now ; I have grown to love adventures.”
“ And it is so exciting to ride by night, as thou didst
last winter with the Empress Queen.”
“But I love the summer nights, with their sweet
freshness, best.”
“Thou dost not remember thy boyhood with regret
now, and wish it back again V*
“Not now.” And Osric made his bow and departed.
“ There is a mystery about that youth ; he is not
English, as my lord thinks ; there is not an atom of it
about him,” said the Countess, and fell into a fit of musing.
From the halls of pleasure let us turn to the dungeons
beneath ; but first a digression.
Even mediaeval barons were forced to keep their accounts,
or to employ, more commonly, a “ scrivener ” or accountant
for that purpose ; and all this morning Brian was closeted
with his man of business, looking over musty rolls and
parchments, from which extract after extract was read,
bearing little other impression on the mind of the poor
perplexed Baron than that he was grievously behind in his
finances. So he despatched the scrivener to negotiate a
IN THE LOWEST DEPTHS
163
further advance — loan he called it — from the mayor, while
he summoned Osric, who was quick at figures, to his
presence.
“ There is scarcely enough money to pay the Brabanters,
and they will mutiny if kept short : that raid last night
was a god-send,” said Brian to himself.
Osric arrived. The Baron felt lighter of heart when
the youth he loved was with him. It was another case of
Saul and David. And furthermore, the likeness was not
a superficial one. Often did Osric touch the harp, and
sing the lays of love and war to his patron, for so much
had he learned of his grandsire.
They talked of the previous evening’s adventures, and
Brian was delighted to draw Osric out, and to hear him
express sentiments so entirely at variance with his ante-
cedents, as he did under the Baro-n’s deft questions.
So they continued talking until the scrivener returned,
and then the Baron asked impatiently —
“Well, man ! and what does the mayor say?”
“ That their resources are exhausted, and that you are
very much in their debt already.”
The reader need not marvel at this bold answer. Brian
dared not use violence to his own burghers ; it would have
been killing the goose who laid the golden eggs. In our
men of commerce began the first germs of English liberty.
Men would sometimes yield to all other kinds of violence,
but the freemen of the towns, even amidst the wild barons
of Germany, held their own ; and so did the burgesses of
Wallingford : they had their charter signed and sealed by
Brian, and ratified by Henry the First.
“ The greedy caitiffs,” he said ; “ well, we must go and
see the dungeons. Osric, come with me.”
Osric had seldom been permitted to do this before.
He had only once or twice been “ down below.” Perhaps
Brian had feared to shock him, and now thought him
seasoned, as indeed he seemed to be the night before, and
in his talk that day.
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BRIAN FITZ- COUNT
And here let me advise my gentler readers, who hate
to read of violence and cruelty, to skip the rest of this
chapter, which may be read by stronger-minded readers as
essential to a complete picture of life at Wallingford Castle.
What men once had to bear, we may bear to read.
They went first to the dungeon in the north tower,
where William, Lord of Shirburne, was confined. Tustain
the gaoler and two satellites attended, and opened the door
of the cell. It was a cold, bare room : a box stuffed with
leaves and straw, with a coverlet and pillow for a bed ; a
rough bench ; a rude table — that was all.
The prisoner could not enjoy the scenery; his only
light was from a grated window above, of too. small di-
mensions to allow a man to pass through, even were the
bars removed.
“ How dost thou like my hospitality, William of
Shirburne 1 ”
“ I suppose it is as good as I should have shown thee.”
“ Doubtless : we know each other. Now, what wilt
thou pay for thy ransom ? ”
“ A thousand marks.”
Brian laughed grimly.
“Thou ratest thyself at the price of an old Jew.”
“ What dost thou ask ? ”
“ Ten thousand marks, or the Castle of Shirburne and
its domains.”
“ Never ! thou villain — robber ! ”
“ Thou wilt change thy mind : thou mayst despatch a
messenger for the money, who shall have free conduct to
come and go ; and mark me, if thou dost not pay within a
week, thou shalt be manacled and removed to the dungeons
below, to herd with my defaulting debtors, and a week
after to a lower depth still.”
Then he turned as if to depart, but paused and said,
“ It is a pity this window is so high in the wall, otherwise
thou mightst have seen a fine blaze last night about
Shirburne and its domains.”
IN THE LOWEST DEPTHS
165
He laughed exultantly.
“ Do thy worst, thou son of perdition ; my turn may
yet come,” replied Martel.
And the Baron departed, accompanied still by Osric.
“Osric,” said he, “thou hast often asked to visit the
lower dungeons : thou mayst have thy wish, and see how
we house our guests there ; and also in a different capacity
renew thine acquaintance with the torture-chambers : thou
shalt be the notary.”
“ My lord, thou dost recall cruel memories.”
“Nay, it was for love of thee. I have no son, and my
bowels yearned for one ; it was gentle violence for thine
own good. I know not how it was, but I could not even
then have done more than frighten thee. Thou wilt see
I can hurt others without wincing. Say, wouldst thou fear
to see what torture is like ? it may fall to thy duty to
inflict it some day, and in these times one must get hardened
either to inflict or endure.”
“ I may as well learn all I have to learn ; but I love it
not. I do not object to fighting ; but in cold blood ”
“Well, here is the door which descends to the lower
realms.”
They descended through a yawning portal to the dun-
geons. The steps were of gray stone : they went down
some twenty or thirty, and then entered a corridor — dark
and gloomy — from which opened many doors on either
side.
Dark, but not silent. Many a sigh, many a groan,
came from behind those doors, but neither Brian nor his
squire heeded them.
“ Which shall I open first ? ” said Tustain.
“The cell of Nathan, the Abingdon Jew.”
The door was a huge block of stone, turning upon a
pivot. It disclosed a small recess, about six feet by four,
paved with stone, upon which lay some foul and damp
litter. A man was crouched upon this, with a long, matted
beard, looking the picture of helpless misery.
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BRIAN FI TZ- COUNT
“Well, Nathan, hast been my guest long enough?
Will not change of air do thee good ? ”
“ I have no more money to give thee.”
“ Then I must bid the tormentor visit thee again. Thy
race is accursed, and I cannot offer a better burnt-offering
to Heaven than a Jew.”
“ Mercy, Baron ! I have borne so much already.”
“ Mercy is to be bought : the price is a thousand marks
of gold.”
“ I have not a hundred.”
“ Osric,” said Brian ; and gave his squire instructions
to fetch the tormentor.
“We will spare thee the grate yet awhile ; but I have
another plan in view. Coupe-gorge, canst thou draw teeth?”
“ Yes,” said the tormentor, grinning, who had come at
Osric’s bidding.
“ Then bring me a tooth from the mouth of this Nathan
every day until his ransom arrive. Nathan, thou mayst
write home — a letter for each tooth.” And with a merry
laugh they passed on to the other dungeons.
There was one who shared his cell with toads and adders,
introduced for his discomfort ; another round whose neck
and throat a hideous thing called a sachentage was fastened.
It was thus made : it was fastened to a beam, and had a
sharp iron to go round a man’s neck and throat, so that he
might nowise sit or lie or sleep, but he bore all the iron.
In short, the castle was full of prisoners, and they were
subjected to daily tortures to make them disclose their
supposed hidden treasures, or pay the desired ransom.
Here were many hapless Jews, always the first objects of
cruelty in the Middle Ages ; here many usurers, paying
interest more heavy than they had ever charged others ;
here also many of the noblest and purest mixed up with
some of the vilest upon earth.
Well might the townspeople complain that they were
startled in their sleep by the cries and shrieks which came
from the grim towers.
IN THE LOWEST DEPTHS
167
And the Baron, followed by Osric, went from dungeon
to dungeon ; in some cases obtaining promises of ransom to
be paid, in others hearing of treasures, real or imaginary,
buried in certain places, which he bid Osric note, that
search might be made.
“Woe to them who fool me,” he said.
Then they came to a dungeon in which was a chest,
sharp and narrow, in which one poor tormented wight lay
in company with sharp flints ; as the light of the torch
they bore flashed upon him, his eyes, red and lurid, gleamed
through the open iron framework of the lid which fastened
him down.
“ This man was the second in command of a band of
English outlaws, who made much spoil at Norman expense.
Now I slew his chief in fair combat on the downs, and this
man succeeded him, and waged war for a long time, until
I took him ; and here he is. How now, Herwald, dost
want to get out of thy chest ? ”
A deep groan was the only reply.
“Then disclose to me the hidden treasures of thy band.”
“We have none.”
“ Persevere then in that lie, and die in thy misery.”
Osric felt very sick. He had not the nerves of his chief,
and now he felt as if he were helping the torture of his own
countrymen ; and, moreover, there was a yet deeper feeling.
Recollections were brought to his mind in that loathsome
dungeon which, although indistinct and confused, yet had
some connection with his own early life. What had his father
been? The grandfather had carefully hidden all those
facts, known to the reader, from Osric, but old Judith had
dropped obscure hints.
He longed to get out of this accursed depth into the
light of day, yet felt ashamed of his own weakness. He
heard the misery of these dens turned into a joke by Alain
and others every day. He had brought prisoners into the
castle himself — for the hideous receptacles — and been
complimented on his prowess and success ; yet humanity
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BRIAN FITZ- COUNT
was not quite extinguished in his breast, and he felt sick
of the scenes.
But he had not done. They came to the torture-chamber,
where recalcitrant prisoners, who would not own their
wealth, were hanged up by the feet and smoked with foul
smoke : some were hanged up by the thumbs, others by the
head, and burning rings were put on their feet. The
torturers put knotted strings about men’s heads, and
writhed them till they went into the brain. In short,
the horrid paraphernalia of cruelty was entered into that
day with the utmost zest, and all for gold, accursed gold
— at least, that was the first object ; but we fear at last
the mere love of cruelty was half the incitement to such
doings.
And all this time Brian sat as judge, and directed the
torturers with eye or hand ; and Osric had to take notes
of the things the poor wretches said in their delirium.
At last it was over, and they ascended to the upper day.
“ How dost thou like it, Osric % ” said Alain, whom
they met on the ramparts.
Osric shook his head.
“ It is nothing when you are used to it ; I used to feel
squeamish at first.”
“ I never shall like it,” whispered Osric.
The whisper was so earnest that Alain looked at him
in surprise ; Osric only answered by something like a sigh.
The Baron heard him not.
“ Thou hast done well for a beginner,” said Brian; “ how
dost thou like the torture chamber ? ”
“ I was there in another capacity once.”
“And thou hast not forgot it. But we must re-
member these canaille are only made for such uses — only to
disgorge their wealth for their betters, or to furnish sport.”
“ How should we like it ourselves ? ”
“You might as well object to eating venison, and say
how should we like it if we were the deer ? ”
“ But does not God look upon all alike ? ”
IN THE LOWEST DEPTHS
169
They were on the castle green. Upon the sward some
ants had raised a little hill.
“ Look at these ants,” said Brian ; “ I believe they have
a sort of kingdom amongst themselves — some are priests,
some masters, some slaves, one is king, and the like : to
themselves they seem very important. Now I will place
my foot upon the hill, and ruin their republic. Just so
are the gods to us, if there be gods. They care as little
about men as I about the ants ; our joys, our griefs, our
good deeds, our bad deeds, are alike to them. I was in
deep affliction once about my poor leprous boys. I prayed
with all my might ; I gave alms ; I had Masses said — all
in vain. Now I go my own way, and you see I do not
altogether fail of success, although I buy it with the tears
and blood of other men.”
This seemed startling, nay, terrible to Osric.
“Yet, Osric, I can love, and I can reward fidelity; be
true to me, and I will be truer to you than God was to
me — that is, if there be a God, which I doubt.”
Osric shuddered ; and well he might at this impious
defiance.
Then this strange man was seized with a remorse, which
showed that after all there was yet some good left in him.
“Nay, pardon me, my Osric; I wish not to shake thy
faith ; if it make thee happy, keep it. Mine are perchance
the ravings of disappointment and despair. There are times
when I think the most wretched of my captives happier
than I. Nay, keep thy faith if thou canst.”
CHAPTER XX
MEINHOLD AND HIS PUPILS
We are loth to leave our readers too long in the den of
tyranny : we pant for free air ; for the woods, even if we
share them with hermits and lepers — anything rather than
the towers of Wallingford under Brian Fitz- Count, his
troopers and free lances.
So we will fly to the hermitage where his innocent sons
have found refuge for two years past, under the fostering
care of Meinhold the hermit, and see how they fare.
First of all, they had not been reclaimed to Byfield. It
is true they had been traced, and Meinhold had been
“ interviewed ” ; but so earnestly had both he and the boys
pleaded that they might be allowed to remain where they
were, that assent was willingly given, even Father Ambrose
feeling that it was for the best; only an assurance was
required that they would not stray from the neighbour-
hood of the cell, and it was readily given.
Of course their father was informed, and he made no op-
position,— the poor boys were dead to him and the world.
Leprosy was incurable : if they were happy — “let them be.”
So they enjoyed the sweet, simple life of the forest.
They found playmates in every bird and beast ; they
learned to read at last; they joined the hermit in the
recitation of two at least of the “ hours ” each day — Lauds
and Vespers , the morning and evening offerings of praise.
They learned to sing, and chanted Benedidus and Magnificat,
as well as the hymns Ecce nunc umbrae ■ and Lucis Creator
optime.
MEINHOLD AND HIS PUPILS
171
“We sing very badly, do we not 1 ”
“Not worse than the brethren of St. Bernard.”
“ Tell us about them.”
“ They settled in a wild forest, — about a dozen in num-
ber. They could not sing their offices, for they lacked an
ear for music; but they said God should at least be honoured
by the Magnificat in song ; so they did their best, although
it is said they frightened the very birds away.
“Now one day a wandering boy, the son of a minstrel,
came that way and craved hospitality. He joined them at
Vespers, and when they came to the Magnificat , he took up
the strain and sang it so sweetly that the birds all came
back and listened, entranced; and the old monks were
silent lest they should spoil so sweet a chant with their
croaking and nasal tones.
“ That evening an Angel flew straight from Heaven and
came to the prior.
“ ‘ My lady hath sent me to learn why Magnificat was
not sung to-night 1 ’
“ ‘ It was sung indeed — so beautifully.’
“ ‘ Nay, it ascended no farther than human ken ; the
singer was only thinking of his own sweet voice.’
“ Then they sent that boy away; and, doubtless, he found
his consolation amongst troubadours and trouveres. So
you see, my children, the heart is everything — not the voice.”
“ Yet I should not like to sing so badly as to frighten
the birds away,” said Richard.
So the months passed away ; and meanwhile the
leprosy made its insidious progress. The red spot on the
hermit’s hand deepened and widened until the centre
became white as snow ; and so it formed a ghastly ring,
which began to ulcerate in the centre, the ulcer eating
deep into the flesh.
Richard’s arm was now wholly infected, and the elbow-
joint began to get useless. Evroult’s disease extended to
the neighbouring regions of the face, and disfigured the
poor lad terribly.
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BRIAN FITZ- COUNT
Such were the stages of this terrible disease; but there
was little pain attending it — only a sense of uneasiness,
sometimes feverish heats or sudden chills, resembling in
their nature those which attend marsh or jungle fevers,
ague, and the like. Happily these symptoms were not
constant.
And through these stages the unfortunate boys we
have introduced to our readers were slowly passing ; but
the transitions were so gradual that the patient became
almost hardened to them. Richard was so patient; he
had no longer a left hand, but he never complained.
“ It is the road, dear child, God has chosen for us, and
His Name is ‘ Love,’ ” said the hermit. “ Every step of
the way has been foreordained by Him Who tasted the
bitter cup for us ; and when we have gained the shore of
eternity we shall see that infinite wisdom ordered it all for
the best.”
“Is it really so % Can it be for the best ? ” said
Evroult.
“ Listen, my son : this is God’s Word ; let me read it
to you.” And from his Breviary he read this extract from
that wondrous Epistle to the Romans —
“ ‘ For we know that all things work together for good
to them that love God, who are the called according to
His purpose.’ ”
“Now God has called you out of this wicked world : you
might have spent turbid, restless lives of fighting and
bloodshed, chasing the phantom called ‘glory,’ and then
have died and gone where all hope is left behind. Is it not
better ] ”
“ Yes, it is,” said Richard ; “ it is, Evroult, is it not —
better as it is 1 ”
“Nay, Richard, but had I been well, I had been a
knight like my father. Oh, what have we not lost ! ”
“An awful doom at the end perhaps,” said Meinhold.
“ Let me tell you what I saw with mine own eyes. A rich
baron died near here who had won great renown in the
MEINHOLD AND HIS PUPILS
173
wars, in which, nevertheless, he had been as merciless as
barons too often are. Well, he left great gifts to the
Church, and money for many Masses for his soul : so he
was buried with great pomp — brought to be buried, I
mean, in the priory church he had founded.
“ Now when we came to the solemn portion of the ser-
vice, when the words are said which convey the last
absolution and benediction of the Church, the corpse sat
upright in the bier and said, in an awful tone, ‘ By the
justice of God, I am condemned to Hell.’ The prior could
not proceed ; the body was left lying on the bier ; and at
last it was decided so to leave it till the next day, and
then resume the service.
“But the second day, when the same words were re-
peated, the corpse rose again and said, ‘ By the justice of
God, I am condemned to Hell/
“We waited till the third day, determined if the
interruption occurred again to abandon the design of bury-
ing the deceased baron in the church he had founded. A
great crowd assembled around, but only the monks dared
to enter the church where the body lay. A third time we
came to the same words in the office, and we who were
in the choir saw the body rise in the winding-sheet, the
dull eyes glisten into life, and heard the awful words for
the third time, ‘ By the justice of God, I am condemned
to Hell/
“ After a long pause, during which we all knelt, horror-
struck, the prior bade us take the body from the church,
and bade his friends lay it in unconsecrated ground, away
from the church he had founded. So you see a man of
blood cannot always bribe Heaven with gifts.”
“ It is no use then to found churches and monasteries ;
I have heard my father say the same,” said Evroult.
“Yet in any case it is better than to build castles to
become dens of cruelty — to torture captives and spread
terror through a neighbourhood.”
“It is pleasant to be the lord of such a castle,” said
174
BRIAN FITZ-COUNT
the incorrigible Evroult, “and to be the master of all
around.”
“ And, alas, my boy, if it end in like manner with you
as with the baron whose story I have just related, of what
avail will it all be ? ”
“ Yes, brother, we are better as we are ; God meant it for
our good, and we may thank Him for it,” said Eichard
quite sincerely.
Evroult only sighed as a wolf might were he told how
much more nutritious grass is than mutton ; inherited
instinct, unsubdued as yet by grace, was too strong within
him. But let us admire his truthfulness ; he would not say
what he did not mean. Many in his place would have
said “ yes ” to please his brother and the kind old hermit,
but Evroult scorned such meanness.
There is little question that had he escaped this scourge
he would have made a worthy successor to Brian Fitz-Count,
but —
“His lot forbade, nor circumscribed alone
His growing virtues but his crimes confined,
Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne,
Or shut the gates of mercy on mankind. ”
Still, let it be remembered, that in Stephen’s days we see
only the worst side of the Norman nobility. In less than a
century the barons rallied around that man of God, Stephen
Langton, and wrested Magna Charta from the tyrant John,
the worst of the Plantagenets. Proud by that time of the
name “Englishmen,” they laid the foundations of our
greatness, and jealously guarded our constitutional liberties ;
and it was not until after the Wars of the Eoses, in which
so many of the ancient houses perished, that a Norman
baron was said to be “ as scarce as a wolf,” that the Blood-
stained House of Tudor was enabled to trample upon
English liberty, and to reign as absolute monarchs over a
prostrate commonalty.
All through the summer our boys were very happy, in
spite of Evroult’s occasional longings for the world. They
MEINHOLD AND HIS PUPILS
175
cultivated a garden hard by their cave, and they gathered
the roots and fruits of the forest for their frugal repast.
They parched the corn ; they boiled the milk and eggs
which the rustics spontaneously brought ; they made the
bread and baked the oatcakes. They were quite vegetarians
now, save the milk and eggs ; and throve upon their simple
fare ; but it took, as our readers perceive, a long course of
vegetable diet to take the fire out of Evroult.
Then came the fall of the leaf, when the trees, like some
vain mortals, put on their richest clothing wherein to die ;
and damps and mists arose around, driving them within
the shelter of their cave ; then winter with its chilling frosts,
keener then than now, and their stream was turned into
ice. And had they not, like the ants, laid by in summer,
they would have starved sadly in winter.
In the inner cave was a natural chimney, an orifice com-
municating with the outer air. Fuel was plentiful in the
forest, and as they sat around the fire, Meinhold told them
stories of the visible and invisible world, more or less, of
course, of a supernatural character, like those we have
already heard. His was an imaginary world, full of quaint
superstitions which were very harmless, for they left the
soul even more reliant and dependent upon Divine help ; for
was not this a world wherein Angels and demons engaged
in terrestrial warfare, man’s soul the prize ? and were not
the rites and Sacraments of the Church sent to counteract
the spells and snares of the phantom host 1
And as they sat around their fire, the wind made wild
and awful music in the subterranean caves ; sometimes it
shrieked, then moaned, as if under the current of earthly
origin there was a perpetual wail of souls in pain.
“ Father, may not these passages lead down to Purgatory,
or even to the abode of the lost ? ”
“ Nay, my child, I think it only the wind ; ” but he
shuddered as he spoke.
“You think they lie beneath the earth, Richard ? ”
“ Yes, the heavens above the stars, which are like the
176
BRIAN FITZ-COUNT
golden nails of its floor ; the earth — our scene of conflict
beneath ; and the depths below for those who fail and
reject their salvation,” said Meinhold, replying for the
younger boy.
“ Then the burning mountains of which we have heard
are the portals of hell ? ”
“ So it is commonly supposed,” said the hermit. The
reader will laugh at his simple cosmogony : he had no idea,
poor man, that the earth is round.
“ Please let me explore these caves,” said Evroult.
“Art thou not afraid1?” said Meinhold.
“ No,” said he ; “I am never afraid.”
“ But I fear for thee ; there are dark chasms and a black
gulf within, and I fear, my child, lest they be tenanted by
evil spirits, and that the sounds we hear at night be not
all idle winds.”
“You once said they were winds.”
“ Yes, but do winds utter blasphemies ? ”
“Never.”
“ Of course not. Is it not written, ‘ 0 all ye winds of
God, bless ye the Lord?’ Now as I lay on my bed last
night, methought the sounds took articulate form, and they
were words of cursing and blasphemy, such as might have
come from a lost soul.”
A modern would say that the hermit had a sort of
nightmare, but in those credulous days the supernatural
solution was always accepted.
“And, my son, if there be, as I fear, evil spirits who
lurk in the bowels of the earth, and lure men to their
destruction, I would not allow thee to rush into danger.”
“No, brother, think no more of it,” said Richard.
And Evroult promised not to do so, if he could help it.
“ There be caves in the African deserts, of which I have
heard, where fiends do haunt, and terrify travellers even to
death. One there was which was, to look upon, the shadow
of a great rock in a weary land, but they who passed a
night there — and it was the only resting-place in the desert
MEINHOLD AND HIS PUPILS
177
for many weary miles — went mad, frightened out of their
senses by some awful vision which blasted those who
gazed.”
“ But ought Christian men to fear such things ? ”
“No; neither ought they without a call to endanger
themselves : 1 He shall give His Angels charge over thee to
keep thee in all thy ways.’ Now our way does not lie
through these dark abodes.”
So the caves remained unexplored.
But we must return to Wallingford Castle again, and the
active life of the fighting world of King Stephen’s days.
Suffice it for the present to say, that the lives of the hermit
and his two pupils, for such they were, continued to roll
on uneventfully for many months — indeed, until the
occurrence of totally unexpected events, which we shall
narrate in due course.
N
CHAPTER XXI
A DEATHBED DISCLOSURE
An excessive rainfall during the late summer of this
year destroyed the hopes of the harvest, — such hopes as
there were, for tillage had been abandoned, save where
the protection of some powerful baron gave a fair
probability of gathering in the crops. In consequence a
dreadful famine succeeded during the winter, aggra-
vated by the intense cold, for a frost set in at the be-
ginning of December and lasted without intermission
till February, so that the Thames was again frozen, and
the ordinary passage of man and horse was on the ice
of the river.
The poor people, says the author of The Acts of King
Stephen , died in heaps, and so escaped the miseries of this
sinful world, — a phrase of more meaning then, in people’s
ears, than it is now, when life is doubtless better worth living
than it could have been then, in King Stephen’s days, when
horrible and unexampled atrocities disgraced the nation
daily, and the misery of the poor was caused by the cruel
tyranny of the rich and powerful.
All this time our young friend Osric continued to be
the favourite squire of Brian Fitz-Count, and, we grieve to
say, became habituated to crime and violence. He no
longer shuddered as of yore at the atrocities committed in
the dungeons of the castle, or in the constant raids : the
conscience soon became blunted, and he felt an ever-increas-
ing delight in strife and bloodshed, the joy of the combat,
and in deeds of valour.
A DEATHBED DISCLOSURE
179
Facilis descensus averno, wrote the poet, or, as it has been
Englished —
“ The gate of Hell stands open night and day,
Smooth the descent, and easy is the way ;
But to return and view the upper skies,
In this the toil, in this the labour lies.”
For a long period he had not visited his grandfather —
the reader will easily guess why ; but he took care that
out of Brian’s prodigal bounty the daily wants of the old
man should be supplied, and he thought all was well there
— he did not know that the recipient never made use of
Brian’s bounty. He had become ashamed of his English
ancestry : it needed a thunder-clap to recall him to his
better self.
There were few secrets Brian concealed from his
favourite squire, now an aspirant for knighthood, and
tolerably sure to obtain his wish in a few more months.
The deepest dungeons in the castle were known to him, the
various sources of revenue, the claims for feudal dues, the
tribute paid for protection, the rentals of lands, the pur-
chase of forest rights, and, less creditable, the sums extracted
by torture or paid for ransom, — all these were known to
Osric, whose keen wits were often called on to assist the
Baron’s more sluggish intellect in such matters.
Alain was seldom at Wallingford ; he had already been
knighted by the Empress Maude, and was high in her
favour, and in attendance on her person, so Osric lacked
his most formidable rival in the Baron’s graces.
He could come and go almost when he pleased ; he
knew the secret exit to the castle, only known to a few
chief confidants — two or three at the most, who had been
allowed to use it on special necessity.
It led to a landing-place on the bank of the river, and
blindfolded prisoners, to be kept in secret, were sometimes
introduced to their doleful lodgings through this entrance.
Active in war, a favourite in the bower, possessing a
good hand at games, a quick eye for business, Osric soon
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BRIAN FI TZ- CO UNI
became a necessity to Brian Fitz-Count : his star was in
the ascendant, and men said Brian would adopt him as his
son.
Constitutionally fearless, a born lover of combat, a good
archer who could kill a bird on the wing, a fair swords-
man, skilled in the exercises of chivalry, — what more was
needed to make a young man happy in those days?
A quiet conscience ? Well, Osric had quieted his : he
was fast becoming a convert to Brian’s sceptical opinions,
which alone could justify his present course of action.
The castle was increasing : the dungeon aforementioned
had been built, called Brian’s Close,1 with surmounting
towers. The unhappy William Martel was its first in-
mate, and there he remained until his obstinacy was con-
quered, and the Castle of Shirburne ceded to Brian, with
the large tract of country it governed and the right of
way across the Chilterns.
Brian Fitz-Count was now at the height of his glory —
the Empress was mistress of half the realm ; he was her
chief favourite and minister — when events occurred which
somewhat disturbed his serene self-complacency, and seemed
to infer the existence of a God of justice and vengeance.
It was early one fine day when a messenger from the
woods reached the castle, and with some difficulty found
access to Osric, bringing the tidings that his grandfather was
dying, and would fain see him once more before he died.
“ Dying ! well, he is very old ; we must all die,” was
Osric’s first thought, coupled with a sense of relief, which
he tried to disguise from himself, that a troublesome Mentor
was about to be removed. Now he might feel like a Nor-
man, but he had still a lingering love for the old man, the
kind and loving guardian of his early years ; so he sought
Brian, and craved leave of absence.
1 ‘ ‘ The last trace of a dungeon answering the above description, with
huge iron rings fixed in the walls, disappeared about sixty or seventy
years ago.” — History of Wallingford (Hedges).
A DEATHBED DISCLOSURE
181
“ It is awkward,” replied the Baron ; “ I was about
to send thee to Shirburne. We have conquered Martel’s
resolution at last. I threatened that the rack should not
longer be withheld, and that we would make him a full
foot longer than God created him. Darkness and scant food
have tamed him. Had we kept him in his first prison, with
light and air, with corn and wine, he would never have
given way. After all, endurance is a thing very dependent
on the stomach.”
“ I will return to-morrow, my lord ; ” and Osric looked
pleadingly at him.
“ Not later. I cannot go to Shirburne myself, as I am ex-
pecting an important messenger from Queen Maude (of course
he called her Queen), and can trust none other but thee.”
“It is not likely that any other claim will come between
me and thee, my lord ; this is passing away, and I shall
be wholly thine.”
The Baron smiled ; his proud heart was touched.
“ Go, then, Osric,” he said, “ and return to-morrow.”
And so they parted.
Osric rode rapidly through the woods, up the course of
the brook ; we described the road in our second chapter.
He passed the Moor-towns, left the Roman camp of Blewbur-
ton on the left, and was soon in the thick maze of swamp
and wood which then occupied the country about Blewbery.
As he drew near the old home, many recollections
crowded upon him, and he felt, as he always did there,
something more like an Englishman. It was for this very
reason he so seldom came “ home ” to visit his grandfather.
He found his way across the streams : the undergrowth
had all been renewed since the fire which the hunters
kindled four years agone ; the birds were singing sweetly,
for it was the happy springtide for them, and they were
little affected by the causes which brought misery to less
favoured mankind ; the foliage was thick, the sweet haw-
thorn exhaled its perfume, the bushes were bright with
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BRIAN FITZ- COUNT
“ May.” Ah me, how lovely the woods are in spring !
how happy even this world might be, had man never
sinned
But within the hut were the unequivocal signs of the
rupture between man and his Maker — the tokens which
have ever existed since by sin came death.
Upon the bed in the inner room lay old Sexwulf, in the
last stage of senile decay. He was dying of no distinct
disease, only of general breaking-up of the system. Man
cannot live for ever; he wears out in time, even if he
escape disease.
The features were worn and haggard, the eye was yet
bright, the mind powerful to the last.
He saw the delight of his eyes, the darling of his old
age, enter, and looked sadly upon him, almost reproachfully.
The youth took his passive hand in his warm grasp, and
imprinted a kiss upon the wrinkled forehead.
“ He has had all he needed — nothing has been wanting
for his comfort % ” said Osric inquiringly.
“We have been able to keep him alive, but he would
not touch your gold, or aught you sent of late.”
“ Why not % ” asked Osric, deeply hurt.
“ He said it was the price of blood, wrung, it might be,
from the hands of murdered peasants of your own kindred.”
Ah ! that shaft went home. Osric knew it was just.
What else was the greater portion of the Baron’s hoard
derived from, save rapine and violence %
“ It was cruel to let him starve.”
“ He has not starved; we have had other friends, but the
famine has been sore in the land.”
“ Other friends ! who 1 ”
“Yes ; especially the good monks of Dorchester.”
“ What do they know of my grandfather 1 ”
Judith pursed up her lips, as much as to say, “ That is
my secret, and if you had brought the thumb-screws, of
which you know the use too well, you should not get it
out of me.”
A DEATHBED DISCLOSURE
183
“ Osric,” said a deep, yet feeble voice.
The youth returned to the bedside.
“ Osric, I am dying. They say the tongues of dying men
speak sooth, and it may be because, as the gates of eternity
open before them, the vanities of earth disappear. Now I
have a last message to leave for you, a tale to unfold before
I die, which cannot fail of its effect upon your heart. It is
the secret entrusted to me when you were brought an infant
to this hut, which I was forbidden to unfold until you had
gained years of discretion. It may be, my dear child, you
have not yet gained them — I trow not, from what I hear.”
“ What harm have mine enemies told of me ? ”
“ That thou shalt hear by and by ; meanwhile let me
unfold my tale, for the sands of life are running out. It
was some seventeen years ago this last autumn, that thy
father ”
“ Who was he — thou hast ever concealed his name ? ”
“Wulfnoth of Compton.”
Osric started.
“ Doth he live ? ”
“He doth.”
“Where?”
“ He is a monk of Dorchester Abbey. I may tell the
secret now ; Brian himself could not hurt him there.”
“ Why should he wish to hurt him ? ”
“ Listen, and your ears shall learn the truth. Thy father
was my guest in this hut. Seventeen years ago this last
autumn he had been hunting all day, and was on the down
above, near the mound where Holy Birinus once preached,
as the sun set, when he perceived, a few miles away, the
flames of a burning house, and knew that it was his own,
for he lived in a recess of the downs far from other houses.
He hurried towards the scene, sick with fear, but it was
miles away, and when he reached the spot he saw a dark
band passing along the downs, a short distance off, in the
opposite direction. His heart told him they were the in-
cendiaries, but he stopped not for vengeance. Love to his
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BRIAN FI TZ- COUNT
wife and children hurried him on. When he arrived the
roof had long since fallen in ; a few pitying neighbours
stood around, and shook their heads as they saw him, and
heard his pitiful cries for his wife and children. Fain would
he have thrown himself into the flames, but they restrained
him, and told him he had one child yet to live for, ac-
cidentally absent at the house of a neighbour. — It was thou,
my son.”
“ But who had burnt the house 1 Who had slain my
poor mother, and my brothers and sisters, if I had any 1 ”
“ Brian Fitz-Count, Lord of Wallingford.”
“ Brian Fitz-Count ! ” said Osric in horror.
“None other.”
Osric stood aghast — confounded.
“ Because your father would not pay tribute, maintain-
ing that the land was his own freehold since it had
been confirmed to his father, thy paternal grandfather, by
the Norman courts, which acknowledged no tenure, no right
of possession, dating before the Conquest ; but Wigod of
Wallingford was thy grandfather’s friend, and he had secured
to him the possession of the ancestral domains. This Brian
denied, and claimed the rent of his vassal, as he deemed
thy father. Thy father refused to obey, and appealed to
the courts, and Brian’s answer was this deed of murder.”
Osric listened as one in a dream.
“ Oh, my poor father ! What did he do 1 ”
“He brought thee here. ‘Henceforth,’ he said, ‘I am
about to live the life of a hunted wolf, my sole solace to
slay Normans : sooner or later I shall perish by their hands,
for Satan is on their side, and helps them, and God and
His Saints are asleep ; but take care of my child ; let him
not learn the sad story of his birth till he be of age ; nor
let him even know his father’s name. Only let him be
brought up as an Englishman ; and if he live to years of
discretion, thou mayst tell him all, if I return not to claim
him before then.’ ”
“ And he has never returned — never ? ”
A DEATHBED DISCLOSURE
185
“Never: he became a captain of an outlawed band,
haunting the forests and slaying Normans, until, four years
ago, he met Brian Fitz-Count alone on these downs, and
the two fought to the death.”
“ And Brian conquered ? ”
“ He did, and left thy father for dead ; but the good
monks of Dorchester chanced to be passing across the
downs from their house at Hermitage, and they found the
body, and discovered that there was yet life therein. They
took him to Dorchester, and as he was unable to use sword
or lance again, he consented to take the vows, and become
a novice. He found his vocation, and is now, I am told,
happy and useful, fervent in his ministrations amongst the
poor and helpless ; but he has never yet been here.
“ And now, Osric, my son,” for the youth sat as one
stunned, “ what is it that I hear of thee ? — that thou art,
like a cannibal,1 preying upon thine own people ; that thy
hand is foremost in every deed of violence and bloodshed ;
that thou art a willing slave of the murderer of thy
kindred. Boy, I wonder thy mother has not returned
from the grave to curse thee !”
“ Why — why did you let me become his man ?”
The old man felt the justice of the words.
“Why did you not let me die first?”
“ Thou forgettest I was not by thee when thou didst
consent, or I might have prevented thee by telling thee
the truth even at that terrible moment ; but when thou
wast already pledged to him, I waited for the time when
I might tell thee, never thinking thou wouldst become a
willing slave or join in such deeds of atrocity and crime as
thou hast done.”
“ Oh, what shall I do ? what shall I do ?”
“ Thou canst not return, now thou knowest all.”
1 It was a remark of this kind which turned Robert Bruce when
fighting against his own people. “See,” said an Englishman, as he saw
Bruce eating with unwashed and reddened hands, “that Scotchman eating
his own blood ! ”
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BRIAN FITZ- COUNT
“ Never ; but he will seek me here.”
“ Then thou must fly the country.”
“ Whither shall I go ? are any of my father’s band
left?”
“Herwald, his successor, fell into the power of Brian,
and we know not what was done with him ; nor whether
he is living or dead.”
But Osric knew : he remembered the chest half filled
with sharp stones and its living victim.
“ One Thorold succeeded, and they still maintain a
precarious existence in the forests.”
“ I will seek them ; I will yet be true to my country,
and avenge my kindred upon Brian. But oh, grandfather,
he has been so good to me ! I am his favourite, his
confidant ; he was about to knight me. Oh, how miserable
it all is ! Would I had never lived — would I were dead.”
“ He has been thy worst foe. He has taught thee to slay
thine own people, nay, to torture them ; he has taught
thee — tell me, is it not true ? — even to deny thy God.”
“ It is true, he has ; but not intentionally.”
“ Thou owest him nought.”
“ Yet I did love him, and would have died sooner than
be faithless to him.”
“ So do sorcerers, as I have been told, love Satan, yet
it is happy when they violate that awful faith. Choose,
my son, between thy God, thy country, thy slaughtered
kindred, and Brian.”
“ I do choose — I renounce him : he shall never see me
again.”
“Fly the country then; seek another clime; go on
pilgrimage ; take the cross ; and employ thy valour and
skill against the Saracens — the Moslems, the enemies of
God.”
“ I will, God being my helper.”
“ Thou dost believe then in the God of thy fathers ?”
“ I think I always did, save when Brian was near. I
tried not to believe, happily in vain.”
A DEATHBED DISCLOSURE
187
“ He will forgive thee — He is all-merciful. The prodigal
son has returned. Now I am weary : let me rest — let me rest.”
Osric wandered forth into the woods. Who shall
describe his emotions ? It was as when S. Remigius said
to the heathen Clovis, “Burn that thou hast adored, and
adore that thou hast burnt.” But the terrible story of the
destruction of his kindred, familiar as he was with like
scenes, overcame him ; yet he could not help blaming his
father for his long neglect. Why had he disowned his only
surviving son ? why had he not trained him up in the
ways of the woods, and in hatred of the Normans V why
had he left him to the mercies of Brian Fitz-Count ?
Then again came the remembrance of that strange
partiality, even amounting to fondness, which Brian had
ever shown him, and he could but contrast the coldness
and indifference of his own father with the fostering care
of the awful Lord of Wallingford.
But blood is thicker than water : he could no longer
serve the murderer of his kindred — Heaven itself would
denounce such an alliance ; yet he did not even now wish to
wreak vengeance. He could not turn so suddenly : the old
man’s solution was the right one — he would fly the country
and go to the Crusades.
But how to get out of England? it was no easy matter.
The chances were twenty to one that he would either
meet his death from some roving band or be forcibly
compelled to join them.
The solution suddenly presented itself.
He would seek his father, take sanctuary at Dorchester,
and claim his aid. Even Brian could not drag him thence ;
and the monks of all men would and could assist him to
join the Crusades.
Strong in this resolution, he returned to the cottage.
“Your grandfather is asleep; you must not disturb
him, Osric, my dear boy.”
“Very well, my old nurse, I will sleep too ; my heart
is very heavy.”
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BRIAIV FITZ- COUNT
He lay down on a pile of leaves and rushes in the outer
room, and slept a troublous sleep. He had a strange dream,
which afterwards became significant. He thought that old
Judith came to him and said —
“ Boy, go back to Wallingford ; 1 Brian] not ‘ Wulfnoth,’
is the name of thy father.”
The sands of old Sexwulf’s life were running fast. The
last rites of the Church were administered to him by the
parish priest of Aston Upthorpe on the day following
Osric’s arrival. He made no further attempt to enter into
the subject of the last interview with his grandson. From
time to time he pressed the youth’s hands, as if to show
that he trusted him now, and that all the past was
forgiven ; from time to time he looked upon him with
eyes in which revived affection beamed. He never seemed
able to rest unless Osric was in the room.
Wearied out, Osric threw himself down upon his
couch that night for brief repose, but in the still hours of
early dawn Judith awoke him.
“ Get up — he is passing away.”
Osric threw on a garment and entered the chamber.
His grandfather was almost gone ; he collected his dying
strength for a last blessing, murmured with dying lips,
upon his beloved boy. Then while they knelt and said
the commendatory prayer, he passed away to rejoin those
whom he had loved and lost — the wife of his youth, the
children of his early manhood — passing from scenes of
violence and wrong to the land of peace and love, where
all the mysteries of earth are solved.
CHAPTER XXII
THE OUTLAWS
Sad and weary were the hours to Osric which intervened
between the death and burial of his grandfather. He gazed
upon the dear face, where yet the parting look of love
seemed to linger. The sense of desolation overwhelmed
him — his earthly prospects were shattered, his dreams of
ambition ended ; but the dead spake not to console him, and
the very heavens seemed as brass ; his only consolation that
he felt his lapse had been forgiven, that the departed one
had died loving and blessing him.
The only true consolation in such hour of distress is
that afforded by religion, but poor Osric could feel little of
this ; he had strayed so far from the gentle precepts which
had guarded his boyhood : if he believed in religion, it was
as when Satan looked into the gates of Paradise from afar.
It was not his. He seemed to have renounced his portion
and lot in it, to have sold himself to Satan, in the person
of Brian Fitz-Count.
Yet, he could not even now hate the Baron, as he ought
to have done, according to all regulations laid down for
such cases, made and provided, ever since men began to
write novels. Let the reader enter into his case impartially.
He had never known either paternal or maternal love — the
mother, who had perished, was not even a memory ; while,
on the other hand, the destroyer had adopted him as a son,
and been as a father to him, distinguishing him from others
by an affection all the more remarkable as coming from a
rugged nature, unused to tender emotions. Again, the
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BRIAN FI TZ- COUNT
horror with which we moderns contemplate such a scene as
his dead grandfather had described, was far less vivid in
one to whom such casualties had been of constant experience,
and were regarded as the usual incidents of warfare. Our
readers can easily imagine the way in which he would have
regarded it before he had fallen under the training of
Wallingford Castle.
But it was his own mother, and Brian was her
murderer. Ah, if he had but once known the gentle endear-
ment of a fond mother’s love, how different would have
been his feelings ! There would have been no need then to
enforce upon him the duty of forsaking the life but
yesterday opening so brightly to his eyes, and throwing
himself a waif and a stray upon the world of strife.
He walked to and fro in the woods, and thought some-
times of all he was leaving. Sometimes of the terrible fate
of her who had borne him. At another moment he felt half
inclined to conceal all, and go back to Wallingford, as if
nothing had happened; the next he felt he could never
again grasp the hand of the destroyer of his kindred.
The hour came for the funeral. The corpse was brought
forth on the bier from the hut which had so long sheltered
it in life. They used no coffins in those days — it was simply
wrapped in the “ winding-sheet.” He turned back the linen,
and gazed upon the still calm face for the last time ere the
bearers departed with their burden. Then he burst into a
passion of tears, which greatly relieved him : it is they who
cannot weep, who suffer most. His grandfather had been
father, mother, and all to him, until a very recent period :
and the sweet remembrances and associations of boyhood
returned for a while.
The solemn burial service of our forefathers was unlike
our own — perhaps not so soothing to the mourners, for
whom our service seems made ; but it bore more immediate
reference to the departed : the service was for them. The
prayers of the Church followed them, as in all ancient
liturgies, into that world beyond the grave, as still
THE OUTLAWS
191
members of Christ’s mystical body, one with us in the
“ Communion of Saints.”
The procession was in those days commonly formed at
the house of the deceased, but as Sexwulf’s earthly home
was far from the Church, the body was met at the lych
gate, as in modern times. First went the cross-bearer, then
the mourners, then the priest preceding the bier, around
which lighted torches were borne.
Psalms were now solemnly chanted, particularly the De
Profundis and the Miserere , and at the close of each the
refrain —
“ Eternal rest give unto him, 0 Lord,'
And let perpetual light shine upon him.”
Then followed the solemn requiem Mass, wherein the great
Sacrifice, once offered on Calvary, was pleaded for the
deceased. When the last prayer had been said, the corpse
was sprinkled with hallowed water, and perfumed with
sweet incense, after which it was removed to its last resting
place. The grave was also sprinkled with the hallowed
water, emblematical of the cleansing power of the “ Blood
of Sprinkling ” ; and the body of the ancient thane was
committed to the earth, sown in corruption, to be raised in
joy unspeakable, and full of glory.
Around the grave were but few mourners. Famine,
pestilence, and war had removed from time to time those
who had known the old thane in his poverty (for thane he
was by birth), but there stood two or three of a different
stamp from the care-worn peasants — men clad in jerkins of
leather, tall, rugged, resolute-looking fellows. One of these
watched Osric closely, and when the last rites were over and
the grave-digger commenced his final labour of filling up
the grave, he followed the funeral party on their homeward
road, as they returned to the desolate home. At last he
approached Osric.
“ I believe you are Osric, grandson of the true English-
man we have now laid in the earth ? ’
“I am that unhappy man.”
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BRIAN FITZ- COUNT
“ Thou art the son of a line of patriots. Thy father died
fighting against the oppressor, and thou art the sole
representative of his family. Canst thou remain longer in
the halls of the tyrant ? ”
“ Who art thou ? ”
“ A true Englishman.”
“ Thorold is thy name, is it not ? ”
“ How didst thou know me ? ”
“ Because my grandfather before he died revealed all to
me.”
“ Then thou wilt cast in thy lot with us ? ”
“ I think not. My father yet lives ; you are mistaken in
thinking him dead. He is a monk in Dorchester Abbey.”
“ He is dead at least to the world ; Brian’s lance and
spear slew him, so far as that is concerned.”
“ But I go to ask his advice. I would fain leave this
unhappy land and join the Crusaders.”
“ And renounce the hope of vengeance upon the slayer
of thy kindred ? ”
“ I have eaten of his bread and salt.”
“ And thou knowest all the secrets of his prison-house.
Tell us, hast thou heard of one Herwald, a follower of thy
father 1 ”
“I may not tell thee ; ” and Osric shuddered.
“ The Normans have spoilt thee then, in deed and in
truth. Wilt thou not even tell us whether Herwald yet
lives 1 ”
“ I may not for the present ; if my father bid me tell
thee, thou shalt know. Leave me for the present ; I have
just buried my grandfather; let me rest for the day at
least.”
The outlaw, for such he was, ceased to importune him
at this plaintive cry ; then like a man who takes a sudden
resolution, stepped aside, and Osric passed on. When he
reached home he half expected to find a messenger from
Wallingford chiding his delay ; then he sat a brief while as
one who hardly knows what to do, while old Judith brought
THE OUTLAWS
193
him a savoury stew, and bade him eat. Several times she
looked at him, like one who is burning to tell a secret, then
pursed up her lips, as if she were striving to repress a strong
inclination to speak.
At length Osric rose up.
“ Judith,” he said, “ I may stay here no longer.”
“ Thou art going to Dorchester % ”
“ I am.”
“What shall I say when the Lord of Wallingford sends
for thee ? ”
“ That I am gone to Dorchester.”
“ Will that satisfy them ? ”
“ I know not. It must.”
“ I could tell thee all that thou wilt learn at Dorchester.”
“ Do so. It may save me the journey.”
“ I may not. I swore on the Gospels I would not tell
the secret to thy”— she paused — “to Wulfnoth.”
“ What ! another secret ? ”
“Yes; and one thou dost not, canst not, suspect; but,
I think, didst thou know it, thou wouldst at once return to
Wallingford Castle.”
“ Tell me — tell me all.”
“Wouldst have me forsworn? No; seek th y father ”
She emphasised the word, and then added, “Ask him to
let me tell thee the whole truth, if he will not do so himself ;
then return and learn more than thy dead grandfather has
told thee, or could have told thee, for he knew not the truth.”
“ Judith, I will seek my father, and return at once
after I have seen him.”
“But the roads are dangerous ; beware ! ’
Osric rose ; put on his tunic over a coat of light chain
mail ; girded his sword to his side ; put on a leathern cap,
padded inside with steel, for in those days prudent men
never travelled unarmed ; then he bade Judith farewell,
and started for Dorchester, making for the Synodune Hills,
beyond which well-known landmarks Dorchester lay, and
beneath the hills was a ford across the Thames.
o
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BRIAN F IT Z- COUNT
He had not gone far — not half a mile — when he heard
a rustling of the branches beyond the brook, and a stern
voice cried —
“ Stand.”
“ Who art thou ? ” he cried.
“ Good men and true, and thou art our prisoner.”
“If so, come and take me.”
“ Wilt thou yield thyself unharmed, on the pledge that
no harm is intended thee ? ”
“ I will not. I know thee, Thorold : I seek Dorchester
and my father.”
“ Thou wilt hardly reach it or him to-day. Stand, I
say, or we must take thee by force.”
“ No man shall make me go with him against my will,”
cried Osric, and drew his sword.
Thorold laughed and clapped his hands. Quick as
thought five or six men dashed from the covers which had
hidden them in all directions. Osric drew his sword, but
before he could wield it against a foe who met him face to
face, another mastered his arms from behind, and he was
a prisoner.
“ Do him no harm ; he is his father’s son. We only
constrain him for his good. Bring him along.”
They led, or rather bore, him through the woods for a
long distance, until they came to a tangled swamp, situated
amidst bog and quagmire, wherein any other men save
those acquainted with the path might easily have sunk up
to the neck, or even lost their lives ; but in the centre
was a spot of firm ground, and there, beneath the shade of
a large tree, was a fire, before which roasted a haunch of
venison, and to the right and left were sleeping hutches, of
the most primitive construction.
“ Canst thou eat % ”
“ I will not eat with thee.”
“ Thy father’s son should not disdain thy father’s friend.
Listen ; if we have made thee a prisoner, it is to save thee
from thyself. The son of a true Englishman should not
THE OUTLAWS
195
shed the blood of his countrymen, nor herd with his op-
pressors. Has not thy grandfather taught thee as much V’
“ He has indeed ; and' no longer will I do so, I promise
thee.”
“Then wilt thou go a little farther, and help us to
deliver thy country ? ”
“ Can it be delivered ? What can ym do ? ”
“ Alas ! little ; but we do our best and wait better
times. Look, my lad, when things are at their worst
the tide turns : the darkest hour is just before the dawn.
Think of this happy land — happy once — now the sport of
robbers and thieves ! Think of the hideous dungeons
where true Englishmen rot ! Think of the multitudes of
innocent folk burnt, racked, tortured, starved, driven to
herd with the beasts ! Think of the horrors of famine !
Think of the unburied dead — slain foully, and breeding a
pestilence, which oft destroys their murderers ! Think, in
short, of Wallingford Castle and its lord ”
A deep murmur of assent from the recumbent outlaws
stretched on the turf around.
Osric’s features twitched ; he felt the force of the
appeal.
“ What do you want of me ? ”
“ Our leader is a miserable captive in the devil’s hold
you have quitted, and of which you know the secrets.”
“ What can I do 1 They were told me in confidence.
Can I break my honour ? ”
“ Confidence ! honour ! If you had promised the Devil’s
dam to sell your soul, would you feel bound to do so ? ’ ’
“ In short,” said another, “ we will have the secret.”
“Nay, Grimbald, patience ; he will come right in time.
Force is no good with such as he. He must do what is
right, because it is right ; and when he sees it, he will join
us heart and soul, or he is not the son of Wulfnoth.’
“ He has shown little paternal care for me ; yet when
you seized me I was about to seek his direction. Why
not let me go, and let him decide for me ? ”
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BRIAN FITZ- COUNT
“ A truce to folly. We know what Wulfnoth of old
would have said, when he was our leader. He gave himself
heart and soul to the cause — to avenge thy slaughtered kins-
folk. And now that one whom he trusted and loved well
is a prisoner in that hell which you have left, can we think
that he would hesitate about your duty ? Why then waste
time in consulting him? I appeal to your conscience.
Where is Herwald ? ”
Osric was silent.
“ By the memory of thy grandfather.”
Still silence.
“ Of thy murdered mother, expiring in the flames which
consumed thy brothers and sisters.”
Osric gave a loud cry.
“ No more,” he said, “no more; I will tell thee : Herwald
lives.”
“Where?”
“ In the lowest dungeon of Wallingford Castle.”
“ Hast thou seen him ? ”
“Yes.”
“ Does he suffer torture ? ”
“ Terribly.”
“ Of what nature ? ”
“ I hardly dare to tell thee.”
“The sachentage?”
“ As bad as that ; the crucet-chest — the ”
“ Stay — wilt thou help us to deliver him ? ”
“ Save my honour.”
“ Honour ! honour ! honour ! ” and they laughed the
word to scorn, till the woods caught the echoes, and seemed
to repeat it, “ Honour ! honour ! ”
“ Get that delusion out of thy mind. To fight for one’s
country, nay, to die for it, that is true honour ; to deliver
the outcast and poor, to save them from the hands of the
ungodly, — it is for this we have brought thee here. Let me
tell thee what I have seen, nay, thou hast seen as much,
and of the woes of thy bleeding country, bleeding at every
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197
pore. If the memory of thy mother stir thee not up, then
thou art niddering.”
At the sound of this word — this term of utter reproach
to an English ear, worse than “ coward ” a thousand times,
suggesting a depth of baseness beyond conception — Osric
started.
“ And deservest to die,” said the outlaw who had just
spoken.
Osric’s pride took alarm at once; his downcast look
changed.
“ Slay me, then,” he said ; “ the sooner the better.”
“ Nay, brother, that is not the way — thou wilt spoil it
all ; we would win him by conviction , not by threats.”
“ Let me have an hour to think.”
“ Take some food.”
“No.”
They left him alone, but he knew he was watched, and
could not escape, nor did he wish to ; he was yielding to
his destiny.
One hour of such mental anguish — the boast of chivalry,
the pomp of power, the false glamour, all giving way to
the conviction that the Englishmen were right, and their
cause that of truth and justice, nay, of God !
At the end of the hour he rose to his feet and looked
around. The men were seated at their repast. He ap-
proached them.
“ Give me of your food.”
They did so. Thorold’s eyes sparkled with delight ; he
saw what it meant.
They waited for him to speak ; but he satisfied hunger
first, then he drank, and afterwards said calmly —
“Is there any oath of admission to your band1?”
“ Only to swear to be true to England and Englishmen
till death, and to wage war against their oppressors, of
whatsoever degree, with all your powers. So help you God.”
Osric repeated the oath solemnly and distinctly.
The outlaws shouted with joy.
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BRIAN FITZ- COUNT
“And now,” he said, “let us talk of Herwald, and I
will do all I can to help you to deliver him ; but it will be
a difficult task. I must take time to consider it.”
Meanwhile old Judith sat at home in the lonely hut, as
she had done on the occasion recorded in the fourth chapter
of our tale. Again she sat by the fire which smoked on the
hearth, again she sang quaint snatches of old songs.
“ It is a wise son which knows his own sire,” she said,
and going to a corner of the hut, opened once more her
poor old rickety chest, from which she took the packet of
musty parchment, containing a ring with a seal, a few
articles of infant attire, a little red shoe, a small frock,
and a lock of maiden’s hair.
“ Poor Ethra,” she said, “ how strange thy fate !” and she
kissed the lock of hair again and again. “ And now thy
boy may inherit his father’s honours and titles unchecked,
for his supposed grandfather is here no longer to claim
him, and his half-brothers are lepers. Wulfnoth never
loved him — never. Why, then, should he not give him up
to his true father? Vengeance ! to be sure, he should not
desire this now. A monk, fie ! fie ! Wulfnoth might seek
it; Father Alphege cannot, may not. He will tell Osric
the whole truth, or refer him to me ; and he may go back
with a clear conscience to Wallingford ; and I shall have
the proofs ready, which the Lord of Wallingford would give
all he has to possess. Here they are, stripped from the
dead attendants or found on the helpless babe.”
Just then she heard steps approaching; she jealously
hid her treasures.
A page dismounted from his horse at the door of
the hut.
“ Is the squire Osric within ? ”
“ Enter.”
A youth of fourteen summers, just what Osric had been
when he began, entered the door, and looked curiously around.
“What! was this Osric’s home — Osric, the Baron’s favourite?”
THE OUTLAWS
199
“ He has gone to Dorchester Abbey.”
“ Dorchester Abbey ! he was to have returned last night
to Wallingford.”
“ He stayed for the funeral.”
The boy looked amazed. What was an old man’s funeral
compared with Brian’s orders ?
“ And his grandfather, dying, bade him go to Dorchester,
whence he will speedily return, and bring, yes, bring with
him that shall make full atonement for his offence, if
offence it be.”
‘‘It had need be something very valuable then. It
might cost some of us our heads, did we do the like.”
“ They will not hurt a hair of his, I am sure. You shall
have him with you soon. Ah, yes ! very soon.”
The boy shook his head, looked once more curiously at
the old woman and the hut, and departed, muttering —
“ I should be sorry to stand in Osric’s shoes ; but then
he is a favourite;” and young Louis of Trouville, page to
Brian for the good of his education, rode down the brook.
“ After all, he is no gentleman. Why did my lord choose
a page from amongst the peasants ? ”
Many had asked that question before
CHAPTER XXIII
THE PESTILENCE (AT BYFIELD)
The time had passed away slowly at the lazar- house at
Byfield. Life was tedious there to most people, least of all
to the good Chaplain, Father Ambrose ; for he loved his
poor lepers with a love which could only come direct from
Him Who loved us all. He did not feel time lag. Each day
had its appointed duties : in holy offices of prayer and
praise, or in his labour of love, the days sped on. He felt
the strain, it is true, but he bore it. He looked for no
holiday here; it could never come. He was cloistered and
confined by that general belief in the contagion of leprosy,
which was so strong in the world that many would have
slain a leper had they met him outside the defined
boundaries, or set their mastiffs to tear him in pieces.
One day Father Ambrose was seated in his cell after
Terce, when one of the attendants came to him with a
serious and anxious face.
“ I should be glad for you to come and see Gaspard ; he
has been very ill all night, and there are some strange
symptoms about him.”
The Chaplain rose, and followed the “ keeper ” into the
chamber above, where in a small “ cubicle,” separated by a
screen from the other couches, the sick man tossed.
“ He is delirious ; how long has he been so ?”
“ Nearly all the night.”
“ And in a raging fever ? — but this blackness ; I never
saw one so dark before.”
It was, alas, too true. The body was fast assuming a
THE PESTILENCE
201
strange dark, yet livid, hue, as if the blood were ink
instead of red blood.
“ Lift up the left arm,” said the Chaplain.
Near the armpits were two or three swellings about
the size of a pigeon’s egg. The Chaplain saw them and
grew serious.
“ It is the black fever — the plague ! ” almost screamed
the horrified attendant.
“Keep cool, brother John; nothing is gained by excite-
ment, and all is lost by fear ; put your trust in God.”
“ But I have touched him — drawn in his infected breath —
I am a dead man.”
The Chaplain heeded him not.
“Brother, canst thou speak?” he said to the sick man.
A moan was the only reply.
“ Brother, dost thou know that thou art dying ?”
A moan again.
“ And that the best of us have not lived as we should ?”
Another sigh, so dolorous.
“ And dost thou believe that God’s dear Son died for
thee?”
A faint gesture of assent.
“ Say thou, brother, ‘ I put the pitiful Passion of Thy
dear Son between me and my sins.’ ” 1
“ I do, oh God. Sweet Jesus, save me.”
And then he relapsed into an unconscious state, in
which he continued till he died.
“We must bury him directly, brother John.”
The attendant shuddered.
“ Yes, we two ; we have been in danger, no one else
need come. You go and tell the grave-digger to have the
grave ready directly, and the moment it is ready we two
will bury him.”
“Oh God ! I am a dead man,” said poor brother John.
“ Nay, we cannot die till our time come, and if so, the
1 This is an extant form of those ages for the reconciliation of a
penitent at the last gasp.
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BRIAN FITZ- COUNT
way He chooses is best. We all owe Him a death, you
know. Fear is the worst thing you can entertain now ; it
brings on the very thing you dread. Overcome that , at all
events, if you can.”
And the poor frightened fellow went out to do as he
was bidden.
Then the brave and good man composed the corpse ;
placed a crucifix on its breast ; drew the bed-clothes round
it to serve as a winding-sheet, for they must be buried or
burned ; said the commendatory prayers ; and walked for
a time in the fresh air.
He knew his own danger, but he heeded it not. All
things, he was persuaded, worked together for good to
them that loved God ; besides, what had he to live for ? —
his poor sheep — the lepers 1 Yes ; but God could raise
up a better man than he, so in his humility he thought ;
and if he were — called home
Did not the thought of that Purgatory, which was in
the Creed of his time, come between him and the notion
of rest 1
Not at all ; he was content to leave all that ; if his
Father thought he needed such correction, he was willing
to pass through it ; and like a dear son to kiss the rod, as
he had done on earth, safe in the hands of his Father.
Neither did his thoughts turn much to the Saints. Of
course he believed, as every one did then, that it was right
to invoke them — and he had done so that day in the
prescribed commendatory prayers for the dying ; but, as
stars fade away in the presence of the sun, so did all these
things fade away before his love for the central sun of his
soul — his crucified Lord;
The hours passed away in rapt emotion ; he never felt
so happy as that afternoon.
Then came the grave-digger.
“ The grave is ready.”
“ Tell brother John to come and help.”
“I do not think he is able ; he seems unwell himself.”
THE PESTILENCE
203
“ Then you and I must do it.”
“ Willingly — where you lead I follow.”
“ Come up the stairs.”
They went to the dormitory ; took the sad burden,
wrapped in the bed-clothing as it was, and bore it to the
grave; the priest said the burial office; the grave-digger
filled up the grave ; and all was over with poor Gaspard.
But before that sun set the Chaplain was called to
brother J ohn, and that same night the poor fellow died of
the fever — fear, doubtless, having been a predisposing cause.
The terror began ; the facts could not long be concealed.
At Evensong that night the Chaplain spoke to them in a
short address, so full of vivid faith and Christian hope
that those who heard it never forgot it. — “ Why should
they fear death ? They had led a living death, a dying
life, these many years. Their exile was over. The Father
called them home. They had long done with this wretched
world. The Christian’s true fatherland was Heaven.”
So he spoke rather like an Angel than a man. But
they could not all rise to it — how could it be expected ?
life clings to life. When Newgate was on fire in the great
riots, the most anxious to be saved were some condemned
criminals left for execution on the morrow.
But for a select few, all fear was gone.
Such men were needed : they had their senses about
them ; they could help others to the last ; they, and they
alone, dared to attend the dying, to bury the dead.
Now came the great trial — the confinement. The lepers
mutinied against being shut up with death, they longed
for liberty, they panted for it ; they would not be im-
prisoned with the plague.
Then began positive fighting. The poor patients had to
be restrained by main force, until the Chaplain came, and
by his great power over their minds, persuaded them to stay.
Every one was asking, “How came it amongst us?” and
the mystery was explained when they were told of a bale
of cloth for their tailor consigned to the house from the
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BRIAN FI TZ- COUNT
Levant , vid Bristol, and which in all the long tedious
voyage had retained the infection ever living in the East.
Day by day fresh victims were carried to the grave.
The plague was probably simply a malignant form of
typhus, nourished in some human hotbed to the highest
perfection. The bacillus or germ is, we trust, extinct, but
otherwise enough might be bred in a bottle to poison a
county, as we have heard stated.
All at once the heaviest blow fell upon them.
Father Ambrose was walking in the grounds, taking rest
of mind after intense mental and bodily exertion, when he
felt a sudden throb of violent heat, followed by an intense
chill and a sickening sensation accompanied by faintness.
He took off his cassock — he saw the fatal swelling.
“ My summons is come,” he said. “ Oh, my Father, I
thank Thee for calling me home ; but these poor sheep
whom Thou hast committed to my care, what shall they do?”
Then he walked quietly to his cell and lay down on
his bed. He had watched the disease in others; he
entertained no hope of recovery. “ In a few hours I shall
see Him face to face Whom I have loved,” said he.
They came and found him. Never was man more
patient ; but that mediaeval idea of intense self-denial was
with him to the last. He refused water : they thought
him delirious.
“ He would not drink,” he said.
They saw his thoughts were on the Cross, and that he
was treading the pathway opened by the Crucified One,
and they said no more.
He had received the Holy Communion that morning —
his last Communion ; the usual rites could not be attempted
now. Before he relapsed into the last stage, they heard
the words in his native tongue —
“ Mon Dieu ! Mon Dieu ! ouvrez moi.”
They were his last. The door was open and he had
entered. Ah, who shall follow even in imagination, and
trace his progress to the gates of day ?
THE PESTILENCE
205
“ Go wing tliy flight from star to star,
From world to luminous world, as far
As the universe spreads its flaming hall :
Take all the pleasures of all the spheres,
And multiply each through endless years,
One moment of Heaven is worth them all.”
But those left behind in the lazar- house — ah me !
deprived of the only man who had gained an empire over
their hearts, and could control them — what of them ?
They lost all control, and broke through all discipline ;
they overpowered their keepers, who indeed scarcely tried
their best to restrain them, sharing the common fear;
they broke the gates open ; they poured forth and dis-
persed all through the country, carrying the infection
wherever they went.
Still this was not a very wide scope ; the woods, the
forests, were their chief refuge. And soon the story was
told everywhere. It was heard at the lordly towers of
Warwick ; it was told at the stately pile of Kenilworth ;
it was proclaimed at Banbury. It startled even those
violent men who played with death, to be told that a
hundred lepers were loose, carrying the double curse of
plague and leprosy wherever they went.
“ It must be stamped out,” said the stern men of the
day : “ we must hunt them down and slay them.”
So they held a council at Banbury, where all the
neighbouring barons — who were generally of one party
in that neighbourhood — took counsel.
They decided that proclamation should be everywhere
made ; that if the lepers returned to the lazar-house at
Byfield within three days, all should be forgiven ; but
otherwise, that the barons should collect their savage
hounds, and hunt them down in the forest.
And this was the very forest where we left poor Evroult
dying — the forest of the hermitage which these poor lepers
were tolerably sure to find out, and to seek shelter.
And here we will leave our poor friends for a while,
and return to Wallingford Castle.
CHAPTER XXIV
THE OPENING OF THE PRISON HOUSE
Great was the surprise and anger of Brian Fitz-Count
that his favourite page should dare to tarry, even to bury
his grandfather, much less to fulfil an idle vow, when he
had bidden him return at once.
He cared so little for sacred things, whether the true
gold of the mint, or the false superstitions of the age, that
he could not understand how they should influence other
men.
Yet he knew they did exercise a strong power over
both the imagination and the will, and sometimes had
acknowledged that the world must have a religion, and
this was as good as any other.
“ Let Osric believe as much or as little as he likes,” he
said, “only he must remember that Brian Fitz-Count is
the deity to be worshipped in Wallingford Castle, and
that he allows no other worship to interfere with that due
to him.”
The next morning Osric reappeared, and at once sought
the presence of his lord.
“ Thou art more than a day behind ? ”
“ I tarried to bury my grandfather, and to execute a
vow in his behalf.”
“ That is well ; but remember, Osric, I permit none
here to disobey my orders, either for the sake of the living
or the dead. He is dead, then 1 ”
“ He died the night I arrived.”
“May he rest in peace,” said Brian carelessly, feeling
THE OPENING OF THE PRISON HOUSE 207
glad in his heart that the old man was gone, and that
there was no one left to dispute his dominion over the
heart of Osric.
“But for my grandfather’s vow I had returned last
night after the funeral. I have discharged my debt to
him, and beg pardon for my delay. I now belong to you.”
It was strange, however, the wooden tone in which he
spoke, like a schoolboy reciting a lesson.
“And thou shalt find in me a father, if thou always
continuest to deserve it — as by obedience thou hast
hitherto done — save this lapse, in place of him whom thou
hast lost.”
“ Am I to go to Shirburne ? ”
“I have sent Malebouche. There are certain matters
of business to talk over. I want thee to turn scribe for
the rest of the day, and write letters for me. It is a thing
I could never accomplish. All I can do is to sign my
name, or better still, affix my seal. My pen has been the
sword, my book the country around ; wherein I write my
black characters, as men say.”
Yes, he did indeed, and the fame remains till this day.
So all the rest of the day Osric wrote at his lord’s
dictation. There was some especial correspondence with
the leaders of the party, and that night messengers were
speeding north, south, east, and west with the missives
Osric had penned.
Late in the day, while Osric was walking on the ram-
parts, a page came after him and bade him hasten to the
bower of the Lady Maude. The manner was urgent, and
he went at once.
He found the lady in tears, surrounded by her hand-
maidens, who were standing on each side of her “ curule ”
chair, endeavouring in vain to console her.
The Baron was striding up and down the spacious room,
which, as we have said, overlooked the river.
“ Read this, Osric,” he said, and put a letter into his
hands. “ I can but half understand it.”
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BRIAN FITZ- COUNT
Osric read. The letter came from the governor of the
lazar-house, and contained a succinct account of the terrible
visitation we have recorded in our last chapter.
“ But our boys are at the hermitage, dame,” said Brian ;
“they are safe ; you need not weep.”
Osric read on — how that the lepers had broken loose and
taken to the woods. Then came the significant close : “ So
the neighbouring barons and knights of all degrees are
gathering together their dogs, to hunt them in the woods ;
and I greatly fear lest harm happen to thy sons, who have
been, with thy permission, left to the care of the hermit
Meinhold, dwelling within the same forest.”
It was a terrible thought to the poor mother : the
affliction of her boys was the great burden of her life. Yet
the customs of the age had required the sacrifice of her.
She had been forbidden, perhaps it was kind, to visit them,
lest the sight of their state should but increase her woe ;
but they were never long out of her thoughts.
“ Husband ! father ! thou must go and protect them, or
I will go myself.”
“ Enough, Maude, enough ; I will start at once with a
troop of a hundred men, and whatever they do in the rest
of the forest, methinks I shall enforce respect for the
hermit’s cave — where we are told they are so happy. Osric,
send Osborne to me for orders at once.”
“ Am I to go, my lord ? ”
“No; you must remain here, I have special reasons.
You will be in attendance on the Lady Maude.”
Osric’s eyes glistened.
“ You will see that certain orders I shall leave are carried
out, in reference to the business in which you are employed.
If any question your right to command, and refuse obedience,
show them this ring. You see how I trust you, my son.”
“ Would he were our son,” sobbed the Lady Maude; “ but
I have none to comfort me ; my poor boys, torn from me —
torn from me. Hasten, my lord ; it is far to Byfield — very
far ; you may not be in time.”
THE OPENING OF THE PRISON HOUSE 209
“ I will bring thee the hands and feet of any who have
dared to harm them.”
That same hour the Baron departed with his troop, and
Osric was busy for a while in executing his commission. He
occupied his own little chamber in the keep ; it was at
a great height above the hill on which the lofty tower was
raised, and the view of the country was most extensive.
When nightfall came, Osric was here alone, and he did
a very singular thing.
He lit a lamp, and placed it in his window ; then he
took it away in a very undecided fashion ; then he replaced
it again ; then he took it away, and finally replaced it.
“ The die is cast,” he said.
Two roads lay before him, — it was an awful crisis in
his life, — two roads, utterly different, which could only lead
to most opposite issues, and the strife was which to choose.
The way was yet open.
But to enter either he must break his faith. Here lay
the sting to his generous heart.
The one road led to honour, to riches, to power, to
glory even ; and had all which could delight a young
warrior’s mind, but coupled with the support of foul tyranny,
the uprooting of the memory of his kindred and their
woes, and the breaking of his newly-pledged faith to the
outlaws.
The other road led to a life of obscurity and poverty,
perhaps to a death of ignominy, and certainly began with
an act of treachery towards one who, however cruel to
others, had loved and trusted him, of which the ring he bore
was a token and a pledge.
It was when he thought of this that he withdrew the
light.
Then came the remembrance of the sufferers in the foul
dens below.
“ It is the cause of God, and truth, and freedom, and
justice, and all that is holy ; ” and he replaced the light.
P
210
BRIAN FITZ- COUNI
Then he knelt ; he could pray now —
“ Oh God, direct me — help me — show some token of Thine
approval this night. Even now I believe in Thee as my
grandfather did. Oh save me, and help Thy poor oppressed
ones this night ; deliver them from darkness and the shadow
of death, and break their bonds asunder.”
Then he went to attend at the supper of the Lady
Maude, where he was received with marked attention.
He had of course been trained in all the etiquette exacted
from pages and squires, and was expected to make him-
self agreeable in a hundred ways, to carve the joints with
elegance, and to wait upon^the ladies.
This part of his duty he had often delighted to execute,
but to-night he was “ distrait.” The poor lady was in so
much grief herself at the danger of her sons, whom she
had not seen for five years, that she did not notice his
abstraction, as she otherwise certainly would have done.
Then it fell ordinarily to the province of the squires
and pages to amuse the party, — to sing songs, recite
romaunts, play the troubadour, or to join in such games as
chess and draughts, lately imported from the East, with the
fair ladies of the little court, — when they dined, or rather
supped, in private as now. But no songs were sung this
night — no tales of valour or chivalry recited ; and the party
broke up early. Compline was said by the chaplain who
was present, for in the bower of so great a lady there must
be respect for forms ; and then the fair ones went to bed.
Osric was now at liberty.
“ Art thou for a composing draught to-night, my squire ? ”
said the chaplain. “ I can compound a fair night-cap for
an aching head, if thou wilt come to my cell.”
“ Nay, my calls are urgent now ; I have been detained too
long by my duties as a squire of dames. I have orders for
our worthy gaoler Tustain and his sons.”
“Not to put any prisoners on the rack to-night 1 it is
late for that ; let the poor things rest till to-morrow.”
“It is not to that effect that my orders run.”
THE OPENING OF THE PRISON HOUSE 211
“ They say you did not like that kind of thing at first.”
“Neither do I now, but I have perforce got used to it.”
“ Bon soir and the chaplain sauntered off to drink
mulled sack. It was a shocking thing that the Church, in
his person, should set her seal of approbation on such
tyranny as that of a Norman hold in Stephen’s days.
Osric descended to the foot of the tower, crossed the
greensward, and entered the new dungeons of Brian’s
Close. On the ground-floor were the apartments of Tustain
the gaoler, extending over the whole basement of the tower
and full of the hateful implements of his office.
There were manacles, gyves, and fetters. There were
racks and thumbscrews, scourges, pincers, and other instru-
ments of mediaeval cruelty. There were arms of various
kinds — swords, axes, lances, bows and arrows, armour for
all parts of the body, siege implements, and the like. There
were lanterns and torches for the service of the dungeons.
There were rows of iron basons, plates, and cups for the
food of the prisoners. Lastly, there were many huge keys.
In the midst of all this medley stood a solid oak
table, and thereat sat Tustain the gaoler-in-chief — now ad-
vanced in years and somewhat impotent on his feet, but
with a heart as hard as the nether millstone — with his
three sons, all gaolers, like himself, eating their supper. A
fairly spread table was before them — very different from
the fare they supplied to their prisoners, you may be sure.
“We have locked up for the night, and are taking our
ease, Master Osric.”
“ I grieve to disturb thy ease, but my lord has sent me
to thee, Tustain.”
“ He must be some leagues away at this moment.”
“ But he has left orders by me ; see his ring.”
Tustain recognised the token in a moment, and bowed
before it.
“Wilt not take some food ? Here is a noble haunch of
venison, there some good trout, there some wood-pigeons in
a pie — fish, flesh, and fowl.”
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BRIAN FITZ- COUNT
“ Nay, I have just supped with our lady.”
“ Thou art fortunate. I remember when thou wert
brought in here with thy grandfather as a prisoner, and
saw the torture-chamber for the first time.”
“ More startling changes have happened, and may yet ;
but my business — Art tired, my men 1 ”
“ We have had little to do to-day — no raid, no convoy of
goods to pursue, no fighting, no hunting ; it has been dull.”
“ But there is work afoot now, and stern work. You,
Bichard, must take horse and bear this letter to Shirburne,
where you must give it to Malebouche, and wait his
orders ; you, Tristam, must carry this to Faringdon Castle,
and bring back a reply ; you, Aubrey, to the Castle of the
Black Lady of Speen.”
They looked astonished — as well they might — to be
sent out for rides, of some fifteen miles each, at that hour.
But the ring — like the genii who were the slaves of the
Lamp, so were they slaves of the Bing.
“ And who will help me with the prisoners ? ” said Tus-
tain.
“You are permitted to call in such of the men-at-arms
as you please.”
“ Why did he not send men-at-arms 'l You are sure he
said my sons were to go ? Why, if we were suddenly
called to put any of my lambs to the torture, these men-
at-arms would hardly know how to do it.”
“You could direct them,” said Osric. Then to the sons,
“ Now, my men, haste speed.”
In half an hour they were gone.
“ A cup of sack for consolation — the best wine from our
lord’s own cellar. I have brought thee a flask.”
“ Wilt thou stay and help me discuss it ? ”
“ For a few minutes only ; I have much yet to do.”
Osric produced the flask from the gypsire which hung
from the belt of his tunic.
Then the old man took down two goblets, and Osric
poured the wine.
THE OPENING OF THE PRISON HOUSE 213
The old man drank freely; Osric but sparingly. Soon
the former began to talk incoherently, and at last he
cried —
“ What wine was that ? Why, it was Old Nick’s own
brewing. I can’t keep my eyes open.”
Half suspecting something amiss, the old man rose, as
if going to the door ; but Osric threw his arms around him,
and as he did so the old man gave way to the influence of
the powerful narcotic which the youth had mingled with
his drink, and fell like a log on the couch to which Osric
had dragged him.
“ I hope I have not killed him ; but if I have it is only
half his deserts. Now for my perilous task. How this
ring has helped me ! ”
He went first and strongly barred the outer door, then
traversed the upper corridor till he came to a room in the
new buildings, which was a private den of the Baron. It
was panelled with oak, and pressing a knob on the panel,
a secret door opened, disclosing a flight of steps. These
went down into the bowels of the earth ; then a narrow
passage opened at right angles to the corridor above, which
Osric traversed. It was damp and slimy, and the air had
a deathly odour ; but it soon came to an end, and Osric
ascended a similar flight of steps to the one by which he
had descended ; again he drew out the key and opened an
iron door at the summit. He stood upon a terrace at the
edge of the river, and just upon a level with the water.
The night was dark and stormy — not a star could be
seen. The stream rippled by as Osric stood and listened.
The clock struck twelve, or rather the man on duty with
an iron hammer struck the bell in the tower of St. Peter’s
Church twelve times with his hammer to tell the mid-
night hour. A few minutes of feverish suspense — the
night air fanned his heated brow — when he heard muffled
oars close by, heard rather the splash of the water as it
fell from the upraised blades. A large boat was at hand.
“ Who comes ? ” said Osric in a low voice.
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BRIAN FITZ- COUNT
“Englishmen, good and true.”
The outlaws stood on the terrace.
“Follow me,” said Osric.
In a few minutes they were all assembled in the heart
of the stronghold in the gaoler’s room, where the gaoler
himself lay snoring like a hog.
“ Shall we slay him ? ” said they, naturally looking on
the brute with abhorrence.
“ No,” said Osric ; “ remember our compact — no blood-
shed save in self-defence. He will sleep till this time to-
morrow night, when I fear Brian will do for him what he
has done for thousands.”
“ What is that 1 ”
“ Hang him.”
“ He deserves it. Let the gaoler and the hangman hang.”
“Amen.”
“ Now for the keys,” said Thorold.
Osric knew them all, and taking them, led the liberators
down below, into the gloomy corridor from which the
dungeons opened on either side. The men shuddered as
they stood between these dens of cruelty, from which
moans, faint and low, from time to time issued like the
sighing of the plaintive wind.
One by one they opened these dens, and took the
prisoners out. Many were too weak, from torture and
privation, to stand, and had to be supported. They hardly
understood at first what it all meant ; but when they knew
their deliverers, were delirious with joy.
At last they came to the cell where the “ crucet-box ”
was placed, and there they found Herwald. Osric opened
the chest, of which the lid was only a framework of iron
bars. He was alive, and that was all ; his hair was white
as snow, his mind almost gone.
“ Are the angels come to take me out of Purgatory ? ” he
said.
“ Herwald, do you not know me 1 ” said Thorold.
It was vain ; they could evoke no memory.
THE OPENING OF THE PRISON HOUSE 215
Then they went to the torture-chamber, where a plain-
tive, whimpering cry struck their ears. In the corner stood
a boy on tiptoes ; a thin cord attached to a thumbscrew,
imprisoning both his poor thumbs, was passed over a pulley
in the ceiling, and then tied to a peg in the wall, so that
the poor lad could only find firm footing at the expense of
the most exquisite pain ; and so he had been left for the
night, the accursed iron eating into the flesh of his thumbs
all the time.
“ My boy ! my boy ! ” said Thorold, amd recognised his
own son Ulric, whom he had only lost that week, and traced
to the castle — hence his anxiety for Osric’s immediate aid
— and the poor father wept.
Happily Osric had the key of the thumbscrew, and the
lad was soon set free.
“ Break up all the instruments of torture,” said Thorold.
Axes were at their girdles : they smashed all the hateful
paraphernalia. No sound could possibly be heard above ;
the depth of the dungeons and the thickness of the walls
gave security.
“Lock up all the cells, all the outer doors, and bring
the keys ; we will throw them into the river.”
It took a long time to get the poor disabled victims
through the passages — many had to be carried all the way ;
but they were safely brought to the large boat, and placed
on beds of straw or the like ; not one sentinel taking the
alarm, owing to the darkness and the storm.
“Now for Dorchester Abbey,” said Osric. “We must
take sanctuary, before daybreak, for all these poor captives,
they are incapable of any other mode of escape.”
“ And we will attend as an escort,” said the outlaws.
“ Then for the forest.”
So Osric atoned for his residence in Wallingford Castle.
CHAPTER XXY
THE SANCTUARY
The heavily-laden boat ascended the stream with its load
of rescued captives, redeemed from their living death in
the dungeons of Brian’s stronghold.
The night continued intensely dark, a drizzling rain
fell ; but all this was in favour of the escape. Upon a
moonlight night this large boat must have been seen by the
sentinels, and followed.
There was of course no “ lock ” at Bensington in those
days, consequently the stream was much swifter than now;
and it was soon found that the load they bore in their barge
was beyond the strength of the rowers. But this was easily
remedied : a towing rope was produced, and half a dozen
of Thorold’s band drew the bark up stream, while another
half-dozen remained on board, steered or rowed, or attended
to the rope at the head of the boat, as needed.
Osric was with them : he intended to go to Dorchester
and see his father, and obtain his approbation of the course
he was pursuing and direction for the future.
All that night the boat glided up stream ; their
progress was, of necessity, slow. The groans of the poor
sufferers, most of whom had endured recent torture, broke
the silence of the night, otherwise undisturbed, save by the
rippling of the water against the prow of the boat.
That night ever remained fixed in the memory of Osric,
— the slow ascent of the stream ; the dark banks gliding
by ; the occasional cry of the men on the shore, or the man
at the prow, as the rope encountered difficulties in its
THE SANCTUARY
217
course ; the joy of the rescued, tempered with apprehension
lest they should be pursued and recaptured, for they were,
most of them, quite unable to walk, for every one was more
or less crippled ; the splash of the rain ; the moan of the
wind ; the occasional dash of a fish, — all these details seemed
to fix themselves, trifles as they were, on the retina of
the mind.
Osric meditated much upon his change of life, but he
did not now wish to recall the step he had taken. His
better feelings were aroused by the misery of those dungeons,
and by the approbation of his better self, in the contempla-
tion of the deliverance he had wrought.
While he thus pondered a soft hand touched his ; it was
that of the boy, the son of Thorold, who had been chained
to the wall by means of the thumbscrew locked upon his
poor thumbs.1
“ Do your thumbs pain you now 1 ” asked Osric.
“Not so much; but the place where the bar crossed
them yet burns — the pain was maddening.”
“ Dip this linen in the stream, and bind it round them ;
they will soon be well. Meanwhile you have the satisfaction
that your brave endurance has proved your faithfulness :
not many lads had borne as much.”
“ I knew it was life or death to my father ; how then
could I give way to the accursed Norman ? ”
“ Pain is sometimes a powerful reasoner. How did they
catch you ? ”
“ I was sent on an errand by my father, and a hunting
party saw and chased me ; they questioned me about the
outlaws, till they convinced themselves I was one, and
brought me to the castle, where they put on the thumb-
screw, and told me there it should remain till I told them
all the secrets of the band — especially their hiding-places.
I moaned with the pain, but did not utter a word ; and
1 This cruelly ingenious contrivance of thumbscrew, lock, and steel
chain may be seen at the house of John Knox, at Edinburgh, amongst
other similar curiosities.
218
BRIAIV FITZ-COUNT
they left me, saying I should soon confess or go mad ; then
God sent you.”
“ Yes, God had sent him.” Osric longed no more for
the fleshpots of Egypt.
Just as the autumnal dawn was breaking they arrived
at the junction of Tame and Isis, and the Synodune
Hills rose above them. They ascended the former stream,
and followed its winding course with some difficulty, as
the willows on the bank interfered with the proper manage-
ment of the boat, until they came to the abbey -wharf.
They landed ; entered the precincts, bearing those who
could neither walk nor limp, and supporting those who
limped, to the hospitium.
They were in sanctuary.
In the city of refuge, and safe while they remained
there. Whatever people may think of monasteries now,
they thanked God for them then. It is quite true that
in those dreadful days even sanctuary was violated from
time to time, but it was not likely to be so in this instance.
Brian Fitz-Count respected the forms and opinions of the
Church, outwardly at least ; although he hated them in
his inward heart, especially when they came between him
and his prey.
The good monks of Dorchester were just emerging from
the service of Lauds, and great was their surprise to see
the arrival of this multitude of impotent folk. However,
they enacted their customary part of good Samaritans at
once, under the direction of the infirmarer — Father Alphege
himself — who displayed unwonted sympathy and activity
when he learned that they were refugees from Wallingford
dungeons ; and promised that all due care should be taken
of the poor sufferers.
There had been one or two Jews amongst the captives,
but they had not entered the precincts, seeking refuge
with a rabbi in the town.
When they had seen their convoy safe, the outlaws
returned to their haunts in the forest, taking Ulric, son
THE SANCTUARY
219
of Thorold, with them, but leaving poor Herwald in the
hands of Father Alphege, secure of his receiving the very
best attention. Poor wretch ! his sufferings had been so
great and so prolonged in that accursed den, or rather
chest, that his reason was shaken, his hair prematurely
gray, his whole gait and bearing that of a broken-down
old man, trembling at the least thing that could startle
him, anon with piteous cries beseeching to be let out, as if
still in his “ crucet-box.”
“Thou art out, my poor brother, never to return,”
said Alphege. “ Surely, my Herwald, thou knowest me !
thou hast ridden by my side in war and slept beside me
in peace many and many a time.”
Herwald listened to the tones of his voice as if some
chord were struck, but shook his head.
“ He will be better anon,” said the Father ; “ rest and
good food will do much.”
While thus engaged the great bell rang for the Chapter
Mass, which was always solemnly sung, being the choral
Mass of the day ; and the brethren and such guests as
were able entered the hallowed pile. Osric was amongst
them. He had not gone with the outlaws ; he had done
his duty by them ; he now claimed to be at his father’s
disposal.
For the first time in a long period he felt all the old
associations of his childhood revive — all the influences of
religion, never really abjured, kindle again. He could
hardly attend to the service. He did not consciously
listen to the music or observe the rites, but he felt it all
in his inmost soul ; and as he knelt all the blackness of
his sinful participation in deeds of cruelty and murder — for
it was little else — all the baseness of his ingratitude in allow-
ing, nay, nurturing, unbelief in his soul, in trying, happily
very successfully, not to believe in God, came upon him.
He had come to consult his natural father, as he thought,
and to offer himself to his direction as an obedient son :
he now rather sought the priest, and reconciliation as a prodi-
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BRIAN FITZ- COUNT
gal to his Heavenly Father as the first step necessary, for in
those days penitence always found vent in such confession.
But both father and priest were united in Alphege ; and
after the Chapter Mass he sought the good infirmarer, and
craved of his charity to make his confession.
Will it be believed ? his father did not know him. It
was indeed years since they had met, and it was perhaps
difficult to recognise the child in this young warrior, now
come to man’s estate — at least to man’s height and stature.
Alphege marked the tear-bedewed cheek, the choking
voice ; he knew the signs of penitence ; he hesitated not
for a moment.
“My son, I am not the pcenitentiarius who ordinarily
receives strangers to Confession.”
“ But I wish to come to thee. Oh, father, I have fought
against it, and almost did Satan conquer in me : refuse me
not.”
“ Hay, my son ; I cannot refuse thee.”
And they entered the church.
Father Alphege had composed himself in the usual way
for the monotonous recitation of human sin — all too familiar
to his ears — but as he heard he became agitated in himself.
The revelation was clear, none could doubt it : he recog-
nised the penitent.
“ My son,” he said at the close, “ thy sin has been great,
very great. Thou hast joined in ill-treating men made
in the image of Cod ; thou art stained with blood ; thy
sin needs a heavy penance.”
“ Name it, let it be ever so heavy.”
“Go thou to the Holy Land, take the Cross, and
employ thy talents for war in the cause of the Lord.”
“ I could desire nothing better, father.”
“ On that condition I absolve thee ; ” and the customary
formula was pronounced.
A hard “ condition ” indeed ! a meet penance ! Osric
might still gratify his taste for fighting, without sin.
They left the church — Osric as happy as he could be.
THE SANCTUARY
221
A great weight was lifted off his mind. It was only in
such an age that a youth, loving war, might still enjoy his
propensity as a religious penance. Similia similibas curantur ,
says the old proverb.
The two walked in the cloisters.
“My father — for thou knowest thy son now — I am
wholly in thy hands. Hadst thou bidden me, I had joined
the outlaws, and fought for my country. Now thou must
direct me.”
“Were there even a chance of successful resistance, my
son, I would bid thee stay and fight the Lord’s battle
here ; but it is hopeless. What can such desultory warfare
do ? No, our true hope lies now in the son of the Empress
— the descendant of our old English kings, for such he is
by his mother’s side — Henry Plantagenet. He will bridle
these robbers, and destroy their dens of tyranny.”
“ But Brian is fighting on that side.”
“ And when the victory is gained, as it will be, it
will cut short such license as the Lord of Wallingford now
exercises, — destroy these robber castles, the main of them,
put those that remain under proper control, drive these ‘free
lances ’ out of England, and restore the reign of peace.”
“ May I not then assist the coming of that day ? ”
“ How couldst thou ] Thou canst never return to
Wallingford, or take part in the horrible warfare, which,
nevertheless, is slowly working out God’s Will. No ; go
abroad, as thou art now bound to do, and never return to
England until thou canst do so with honour.”
“ Thou biddest me go at once ? ”
“ Without wasting a day.”
“ What steps must I take ? ”
“ Dost thou know a moated grange called Lollingdune,
in the parish of Chelseye % ”
“Well.”
“ It is an infirmary for Reading Abbey, and the Abbot
is expected to-morrow ; thou must go, furnished with
credentials from our Abbot Alured. The Abbot of Read-
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BRIAN FITZ- COUNT
ing is a mitred abbot, and has power to accept thy
vows and make thee a knight of the Cross. I doubt if
even Brian would dare touch thee then ; but keep out of
his way till that time ; go not by way of Wallingford.”
“ That were madness. I will make across country.”
“And now, dear son, come to noon -meat; I hear the
refectory bell.”
To the south-west of the village of Cholsey (Chelseye)
the Berkshire downs sink into the level plain of the valley
of the Thames. Here, therefore, there was that broken
ground which always accompanies the transition from a
higher to a lower level, and several spurs of the higher
ranges stretch out into the plain like peninsulas ; while in
other places solitary hills, like islands, which indeed they
once were, stand apart from the mainland of hills.
One of these hill islands was thickly clothed with wood
in those days, as indeed it is now. And to the north-
west there lay a “ moated grange.”
A deep moat, fed by streams which arose hard by, en-
closed half an acre or less of ground. This had been laid out
as a “ pleasaunce,” and in the centre was placed a substantial
house of stone, of ecclesiastical design. It was a country
residence of the monks of Reading Abbey, where they
sent sick brethren who needed change of air, to breathe the
refreshing breezes which blow off the downs.
Such a general sense of insecurity, however, was felt all
over the country by clericals and laics alike, that they dug
this deep moat, and every night drew up their drawbridge,
leaving the enclosure under the protection of huge and faith-
ful mastiffs, who had been taught to reverence a monk’s
cassock at night, but to distrust all parties wearing lay attire,
whether of mail or otherwise.
A level plain, between outlying spurs of the downs, lay
to the west, partly grazing land, partly filled with the
primeval forest, and boggy and dangerous in places. Here
the cows of the abbey grazed, which sujjplied the conva-
THE SANCTUARY
223
lescents with the milk so necessary in their cases ; but every
night each member of the “milky herd” was carefully
housed inside the moat.
There was great preparation going on at the grange of
Lollingdune, so called from its peculiar position at the
foot of the hill. The Abbot of Reading, as we have else-
where learned, was expected on the morrow. He was a
mighty potentate ; thrice honoured ; had a seat in the
great council of the kingdom ; wore a mitre ; was as
great and grand as a bishop, and so was reverenced by all
the lesser fry.
So the cooks were busy. The fatted calf was slain,
several fowls had to pay the debt of nature, carp were in
stew ; various wines were broached — Malmsey, Osey, Sack,
and such like ; devices in pastry executed, notably a pigeon-
pie, with a superincumbent mitre in pie-crust ; and many
kinds of sweets were curiously and wonderfully made.
At the close of the day sweet tinkling bells announced
the approach of the cavalcade over the ridge of the hill to
the eastward; and soon a dozen portly monks, mounted on
sleek mules, with silver bells on their trappings, for they
did not affect the warlike horse, and accompanied meetly
by lay attendants, laden with furniture and provisions for
the Abbot’s comfort, approached by the “ under-down ” road,
which led from the gorge of the Thames at Streatley. The
whole community turned out to meet them, and there was
such an assembly of dark robes that the bailiff of the farm
jocosely called it “Rook-Fair.”
“ Pax vobiscum fratres omnes , clerici atque laid I have
come to repose my weary limbs amongst you, but by St.
Martin the air of these downs is fresh, and will make us relish
the venison pasty, or other humble fare we may receive for
the sustenance of our flesh. How are all the invalids?”
“ They be doing well,” said Father Hieronymus, the
senior of the monks at Lollingdune; “and say that the sight
of their Abbot will be a most salutary medicament.”
The Abbot smiled ; he liked to think himself loved.
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BRIAN FITZ- COUNT
“ But who is this youth in lay attire 1 ” and he smiled
sweetly, for he liked to see a handsome youth.
“ It is one Osric, who has brought letters commendatory
from the Abbot of Dorchester.’’
“ Our brother Alured — is he well ? ”
“ He is well, my lord,” replied Osric, as he bent the knee.
“ And what dost thou seek, sweet son ? dost wish to
become a novice of our poor house of St. Benedict ? ”
“Nay, my good lord, it is in another vocation I wish to
serve God.”
“And that, — ah, I guess thou wishest to take the
Cross and go to the Holy Land.”
“ I do with all my heart.”
“ And this letter assures me that thou art a fitting per-
son, and skilled in the use of carnal weapons.”
“ I trust I am. ”
“ Then thou shalt share our humble fare this night, and
then thou shalt on the morrow take the vow and receive the
Cross from my own hands, after the Mass which follows
Terce.”
Osric bowed in joyful assent. And that night he
dined at the monastic table of Lollingdune Grange. The
humble fare was the most sumptuous he had ever known ;
for at Wallingford Castle they paid small attention to the
culinary art — quantity, not quality, was their motto ; they
ate of meat half raw, thinking it increased their ferocity ;
and “ drank the red wine through the helmet barred.”
But it was not so here ; the weakness of the monastic
orders, if it was a weakness, was good cooking.
“ Why should we waste or spoil the good things God
has given us h ” they asked.
We wish our space permitted us to relate the conversa-
tion which had place at that table. The Abbot of Beading
was devoted more or less to King Stephen, for Maude, in
one of her progresses, had spoiled the abbey and irritated
the brethren by exacting heavy tribute. So they told
many stories of the misdeeds of the party of the Empress,
THE SANCTUARY
225
and many more of the cruelties of Brian Fitz-Count, whose
lordly towers were visible in the distance.
Osric sat at table next to the lord Abbot, which was
meant for a great distinction.
“ In what school, my son, hast thou studied the warlike
art and the science of chivalry ?” asked the Abbot.
“ In the Castle of Wallingford, my lord.”
“ I could have wished thee a better school, but doubtless
thou art leaving them in disgust with their evil deeds of
which we hear daily ; in fact, we are told that the towns-
people cannot sleep for the shrieks of the captives in the
towers.”
“It is in order to atone for ever having shared in their
deeds that I have left them, and the very penance laid on me
is to fight for the Cross of Christ in atonement for my error.”
“ And what will Brian think of it ?”
“ I must not let him get hold of me.”
“ Then tarry here till I return to Reading, and assuming
the palmer’s dress, travel in our train out of his country ;
he will not dare to assail us.”
It was wise counsel.
On the morrow Mass was said in the chapel, which
occupied the upper story of the house, over the dormi-
tories, under a high arched roof, which was the general
arrangement in such country houses of the monks and
at the offertory Osric offered himself to God as a Cru-
sader, took the vow, and the Abbot bound the red cross
on his arm.
1 The author has twice seen the remains of such chapels in the upper
stories of farmhouses — once monastic granges, f
Q
CHAPTEE XXVI
SWEET SISTER DEATH1
The reader may feel quite sure that such a nature as
Evroult’s was not easily conquered by the gentle in-
fluences of Christianity ; indeed, humanly speaking, it
might never have yielded had not the weapon used
against it been Love.
One day, as he sat rapt in thought on the sunny
bank outside the hermitage, the hermit and Eichard
talking quietly at a short distance, he seemed to receive a
sudden inspiration, — he walked up to Meinhold.
“ Father, tell me, do you think you can recover of the
leprosy you have caught from us ?”
“ I do not expect to do so.”
“And do you not wish we had never come here?”
“ By no means ; God sent you.”
“And you give your life perhaps for us ?”
“ The Good Shepherd gave His life for me.”
“ Father, I have tried not to listen to you, but I can fight
against it no longer. You are right in all you say, and
always have been, only — only ”
A pause. The hermit waited in silent joy.
“ Only it was so hard to flesh and blood.”
“And can you yield yourself to His Will now?”
“ I am trying — very hard ; I do not even yet know
whether I quite can.”
“ He will help you, dear boy ; He knows how hard it is
for us weak mortals to overcome self.”
1 So called by St. Francis of Assisi.
SWEET SISTER DEATH
227
“I knew if I had kept well I should have grown up
violent, wicked, and cruel, and no doubt have lost my
soul. Do you not think so, father?”
“Very likely, indeed.”
“And yet I have repined and murmured against Him
Who brought me here to save me.”
“ But He will forgive all that, now you truly turn to
Him and submit to His Will.”
“ I try to give myself to Him to do as He pleases.”
“And you believe He has done all things well?”
“ Yes.”
“ Even the leprosy ?”
“ Yes, even that.”
“You are right, my dear son; we must all he purified
through suffering, for what son is he whom the Father
chasteneth not ? and if we are not partakers thereof, then
are we bastards and not sons. All true children of God
have their Purgatory here or hereafter — far better here.
He suffered more for us.”
A few days passed away after this conversation, and a rapid
change for the worse took place in poor Evroult’s physical
condition. The fell disease, which had already disfigured
him beyond recognition, attacked the brain. His brother
and the hermit could not desire his life to be prolonged in
such affliction, and they silently prayed for his release,
grievous although the pang of separation would be to them
both — one out of their little number of three.
One day he had been delirious since the morning, and at
eventide they stood still watching him. It had been a dark
cloudy day, but now at sunset a broad vivid glory appeared
in the west, which was lighted up with glorious crimson,
azure, and gold, beneath the edge of the curtain of cloud.
“ ‘ At eventide it shall be light,’ ” quoted Meinhold.
“ See, he revives,” said Richard.
He looked on their faces.
“ Oh brother, oh dear father, I have seen Him ; I have
228
BRIAN FITZ- COUNT
heard with the hearing of the ear, but now mine eye hath
seen Him.”
They thought he spake of a vision, but it may have
been, probably was, but a revelation to the inward
soul.
“ And now, dear father, give me the Viaticum ; I am
going, and want my provision for the way.”
He spoke of the Holy Communion, to which this name
was given when administered to the dying.
Then followed the Last Anointing, and ere it was over
they saw the great change pass upon him. They saw Death,
sometimes called the grim King of Terrors, all despoiled of
his sting ; they saw the feeble hand strive to make the
Holy Sign, then fall back ; while over his face a mys-
terious light played as if the door of Paradise had been
left ajar when the redeemed soul passed in.
“ Beati qui in Domino morinutur,” said Meinhold ; “his
Purgatory was here. Do not cry, Richard ; the happy day
will soon come when we shall rejoin him.”
They laid him out before the altar in their rude
chapel, and prepared for the last funeral rite.
Meanwhile disfigured forms were stealing through the
woods, and finding a shelter in various dens and caves,
or sleeping round fires kindled in the open or in wood-
cutters’ huts, deserted through fear of them ; as yet they
had not found the hermit’s cave or entered the Happy
Valley.
On the morrow Meinhold celebrated the Holy Eucharist,
and afterwards performed the burial service with simplest
rites ; they then committed the body to the earth, and
afterwards wandered together, discoursing sweetly on the
better life, into the forest, where the twilight was
“ Like the Truce of God
With earthly pain and woe.”
Never were they happier — never so full of joy and resigna-
SWEET SISTER DEATH
229
tion — these two unfortunates, as the world deemed them ;
bearing about the visible sentence of death on themselves,
but they had found the secret of a life Death could not
touch.
And in their walk they came suddenly upon a man,
who reposed under the shadow of a tree ; he seemed asleep,
but talked and moaned as if in a feverish dream.
“ Father, he is a leper like us, look.”
“ God has sent him, perhaps, in the place of Evroult.”
They woke him.
“ Where am 1 1 ”
“ With friends. Canst walk to our home ; it is not far ? ”
“Angels from Heaven. Yes, I can walk — see.”
But without their assistance he could never have reached
the cave.
They gave him food ; he took little, but drank eagerly.
“ How did you come here ? ”
He told them of the plague at Byfield, and of the death
of the Chaplain.
“ Happy man ! ” said Meinhold ; “ he laid down his life for
the sheep the Good Shepherd had committed to his care.”
And so may we, he thought.
That night the poor man grew worse ; the dark livid
hue overspread him. Our readers know the rest.
Voices might have been heard in the cave the next day —
sweet sounds sometimes as if of hymns of praise.
The birds and beasts came to the hermit’s cave, and
marvelled that none came out to feed them — that no crumbs
were thrown to them, no food brought forth. A bold
robin even ventured in, but came out as if affrighted, and
flew right away.
They sang their sweet songs to each other. No human
ear heard them ; but the valley was lovely still.
Who shall go into that cave and wake the sleepers ?
Who ?
Then came discordant noises, spoiling nature’s sweet
230
BRIAN FITZ- COUNT
harmony — the haying of hounds, the cries of men sometimes
loud and discordant, sometimes of those who struggled,
sometimes of those in pain.
Louder and louder — the hunt is up — the horse and hound
invade the glen.
A troop of affrighted -looking men hasten down the
valley.
Look, they are lepers.
They have cause to fear ; the deep baying of the mastiffs
is deepening, drawing near.
They espy the cave — they rush towards it up the
slope — in they dash.
Out again.
Another group of fugitives follow.
“ The cave ! the cave ! we may defend the mouth.”
“ There are three there already,” said the first.
“ Three V'
“ Dead of the Plague .”
And they would have run away had not the hunters
and dogs come upon them, both ways, up and down the
glen.
They are driven in — some two score in all.
The leaders of the pursuing party pause.
“ I think,” says a dark baron, “ I see a way out of our
difficulty without touching a leper.”
“ Send the dogs in.”
“ In vain ; they will not go ; they scent something amiss.”
“This cave has but one opening.”
“ I have heard that a hermit lived here with two young
lepers.”
“Call him.”
“ Meinhold ! Meinhold ! ”
No reply.
“ He is dead long ago, I daresay.”
“If he does not come out it is his own fault.”
“There were two young lepers who dwelt with him.”
“ What business had he with lepers ? ”
SWEET SISTER DEATH
231
“All the world knew it, and he had caught it himself.”
“ Then we will delay no longer. God will know His
own.” And then he gave the fatal order.
“ Gather brushwood, sticks, reeds, all that will burn, and
pile it in the mouth of the cave.”
They did so.
“ Fire it.”
The dense clouds of smoke arose, and as they hoped
in their cruelty, were sucked inward.
“ There must be a through draught.”
“ Can they get out 1 ”
“ No, lord baron.”
“Watch carefully lest there be other outlets. We
must stamp this foul plague out of the land.”
Then they stood and watched.
The flames crackled and roared ; dense volumes of
smoke arose, now arising above the trees, now entering
the cave; the birds screamed overhead; the fierce men
looked on with cruel curiosity ; but no sound was heard
from within.
At this moment the galloping of horsemen was heard.
“ Our brother of Kenilworth, doubtless.”
But it was not. A rider in dark armour appeared at
the head of a hundred horsemen.
“ What are you doing 1 ” cried a stern voice.
“ Smoking lepers out.”
“ Charge them ! cut them down ! slay all ! ”
And the Wallingford men charged the incendiaries as
one man. Like a thunderbolt, slaying, hewing, hacking,
chopping, cleaving heads and limbs from trunks, with all the
more deadly facility as their more numerous antagonists
lacked armour, having only come out to slay lepers.
The Baron of Hanwell Castle was a corpse ; so was the
knight of Cropredy Towers ; so was the young lord of
Southam ; others were writhing in mortal agony, but within
a quarter of an hour more, only the dead and dying disputed
the field with the Wallingford men. The rest had fled,
232
BRIAN FIT Z- COUNT
finding the truth of the proverb, “There be many that
come out to shear and go back shorn.”
“ Drag the branches away ! pull out the faggots ! extin-
guish the fire ! scatter it ! fight fire as ye have fought
men !”
That was done too. They dispersed the fuel, they scat-
tered the embers ; and hardly was this done than Brian
rushed in the cave, through the hot ashes. But scarce could
he stay in a moment, the smoke blinded — choked him.
Out again, almost beside himself with rage, fear for his
boys, and vexation.
In again. Out again.
So three or four abortive attempts.
At last the smoke partially dispersed, and he could
enter.
The outer cave was empty.
But in the next subterranean chamber lay a black
corpse — a full-grown man. Brian knew him not. He
crossed this cave and entered the next one, and by the
altar knew it was their rude chapel.
Before the altar lay two figures ; their hands clasped in
the attitude of prayer ; bent to the earth ; still — motion-
less.
Their faces, too, were of the same dark hue.
The one wore the dress of a hermit, the other was a
boy of some sixteen years.
Brian recognised his younger son in the latter, rather
by instinct and by knowledge of the circumstances than
otherwise.
“ It is my Bichard. But where is Evroult ? ”
“ Here,” said a voice, — “ read.”
Upon the wall was a rude inscription, scratched thereon
by Meinhold, his last labour of love —
EVROULT IN PACE.
Little as he possessed the power of reading, Brian
recognised his son’s name, and understood all. The
SWEET SISTER DEATH
233
strong man fell before that altar, and for the first time in
many years recognised the Hand which had stricken him.
They dragged him away, as they felt that the atmos-
phere was dangerous to them all — as indeed it was.
“ Leave them where they are — better tomb could they
not have ; only wall up the entrance.”
And they set to work, and built huge stones into the
mouth of the cave —
“ Leaving them to rest in hope —
Till the Resurrection Day.”
And what had become of the other lepers ?
Driven by the smoke, they had wandered into the
farthest recesses of the cave — once forbidden to Evroult by
the hermit.
Whether they perished in the recesses, or whether they
found some other outlet, and emerged to the upper day,
we know not. No further intelligence of the poor unfor-
tunates reached the living, or has been handed down to
posterity.
And now, do my readers say this is a very melancholy
chapter ? Do they pity, above all, the hermit and Eichard,
struck down by the pestilence in an act of which Christ
would have said, “ Inasmuch as ye did it to the least of
these My brethren, ye did it unto Me ” ?
The pestilence saved them from the lingering death of
leprosy, and even had they lived to grow old, they had
been dust and ashes seven centuries ago. What does it
matter now whether they lived sixteen or sixty years?
The only point is, did they, through God’s grace, merit to
hear the blessed words, “ Well done, good and faithful
servant, enter into the joy of your Lord ” ?
And we think they did.
CHAPTER XXYII
FRUSTRATED
Had the Abbot of Reading seen fit, or rather had the busi-
ness on which he came to Lollingdune allowed him to return
home on the day in which he had decorated Osric with the
red cross, it had been well for all parties, save the writer ;
for the entangled web of circumstance which arose will give
him scope for another chapter or two, he trusts, of some
interest to the reader.
As it was, Osric was thrown upon his own resources for
the rest of that day, after the Mass was over ; and his
thoughts not unnaturally turned to his old home, where
the innocent days of his childhood had been spent, and to
his old nurse Judith, sole relict of that hallowed past.
Could he not bid her farewell 1 He had an eye, and he
could heed ; he had a foot, and he could speed — let Brian’s
spies watch ever so narrowly.
Yes, he must see her. Besides, Osric loved adventure :
it was to him the salt of life. He loved the sensation of
danger and of risk. So, although he knew that there must
be a keen hunt on foot from Wallingford Castle after the
fugitives, and that the old cottage might be watched, he
determined to risk it all for the purpose of saying good-
bye to his dear old nurse.
So, without confiding his purpose to any one, he started
on foot. He passed the old church of Aston Upthorpe,
where his grandfather lay buried, breathing a prayer for
the old man, as also a thanksgiving for the teaching which
had at last borne fruit, for he felt that he was reconciled
FRUSTRATED
235
to God and man, now that he had taken the Holy Vow,
and abandoned his godless life at Wallingford Castle.
Then passing between the outlying fort of Blewburton and
the downs, he entered the maze of forest.
But as he approached the spot, he took every precau-
tion. He scanned each avenue of approach from Walling-
ford ; he looked warily into each glade ; anon, he
paused and listened, but all was still, save the usual sounds
of the forest, never buried in absolute silence.
At length he crossed the stream and stood before the
door of the hut. He paused one moment ; then he heard
the well-known voice crooning a snatch of an old ballad ;
he hesitated no longer.
“ Judith ! ”
“ My darling,” said the fond old nurse, “ thou hast come
again to see me. Tell me, is it all right ? Hast thou found
thy father ? ”
“ I have.”
“Where? Tell me?”
“At Dorchester Abbey of course.”
Judith sighed.
“ And what did he say to thee ? ”
“ Bade me go on the Crusades. And so I have taken the
vow, and to-morrow I leave these parts perhaps, for ever.”
“ Alas ! it is too bad. Why has he not told thee the
whole truth ? Woe is me ! the light of mine eyes is taken
from me. I shall never see thee again.”
“ That is in God’s hands.”
“ How good thou hast grown, my boy ! Thou didst
not talk like this when thou earnest home from the castle.”
“Well, perhaps I have learnt better;” and he sighed,
for there was a reproach, as if the old dame had said, “ Is
Saul also amongst the prophets ? ”
“ But, my boy,” she continued, “ is this all ? Did not
Wulfnoth — I mean Father Alphege — tell thee more than
this?”
“ What more could he tell me ? ”
236
BRIAN FIT Z- COUNT
She rocked herself to and fro.
“ I must tell him ; hut oh, my vow ”
“ Osric, my child, my bonnie boy, thou dost not even
yet know all, and I am bound not to tell thee. But I was
here when thou wast brought home by Wulfnoth, a baby-
boy; and — and I know what I found out — I saw — God help
me ; but I swore by the Black Cross of Abingdon I would
not tell.”
“ Judith, what can you mean ? ”
“ If you only knew, perhaps you would not go on this
crusade.”
“ Whither then ? I must go.”
“ To Wallingford.”
“ But that I can never do. I have broken with them
and their den of darkness for ever.”
“Nay, nay; it may be all thine own one day, and
thou mayst let light into it.”
“ What can you mean ? You distract me.”
“I cannot say. Ah! — a good thought. You may
look — I didn’t say I wouldn’t show. See, Osric, I will
show thee what things were on thy baby -person when
thou wast brought home. Here — look.”
She rummaged in her old chest and brought forth — a
ring with a seal, a few articles of baby attire, a little red
shoe, a small frock, and a lock of maiden’s hair.
“ Look at the ring.”
It bore a crest upon a stone of opal.
The crest was the crest of Brian Fitz-Count.
“ Well, what does this mean 1 ” said Osric. “ How came
this ring on my baby-self % ”
“ Dost thou not see ? Blind ! blind ! blind ! ”
“And deaf too — deaf! deaf! deaf!” said a voice.
“ Dost thou not hear the tread of horses, the bay of the
hound, the clamour of men who seek thee for no good 1 ”
It was young Ulric who stood in the doorway.
“ Good-bye, nurse ; they are after me ; I must go. ”
“ What hast thou done ? ”
FRUSTRATED
237
“ Let all their captives loose. Farewell, dear nurse ; ”
and he embraced her.
“Haste, Osric, haste,” said the youthful outlaw, “or
thou "wilt be taken.”
They dashed from the hut.
“ This way,” said Ulric.
And they crossed the stream in the opposite direction
to the advancing sounds.
“ I lay hid in the forest and heard them say they would
seek thee in thine old home, as they passed my lurking-place.”
“Now, away.”
“But they may hurt Judith. Nay, Brian has not yet
returned, cannot yet have come back, and without his
orders they would not dare. He forbade them once before
even to touch the cottage.”
They pressed onward through the woods.
“ Whither do we go ? ” said Osric, who had allowed his
young preserver to lead.
“ To our haunt in the swamp.”
“ You have saved me, Ulric.”
“ Then it has been measure for measure, for didst thou
not save me when in direful dumps Wilt thou not tarry
with us, and be a merry man of the greenwood ? ”
“ Nay, I am pledged to the Crusades.”
Ulric was about to reply, when he stopped to listen.
“ There is the bay of that hound again : it is one of a
breed they have trained to hunt men.”
“ I know him — it is old Pluto ; I have often fed him :
he would not hurt me.”
“ But he would discover thee, nevertheless, and I should
not be safe from his fangs.”
“Well, we are as swift of foot as they — swifter, I
should think. Come, we must jump this brook.”
Alas ! in jumping, Osric’s foot slipped from a stone on
which he most unhappily alighted, and he sank on the
ground with a momentary thrill of intense pain, which made
him quite faint.
238
BRIAN FITZ-COUNT
He had sprained his ankle badly.
Ulric turned pale.
Osric got up, made several attempts to move onward,
but could only limp painfully forward.
“Ulric, I should only destroy both thee and me by
perseverance in this course.”
“Never mind about me.”
“ But I do. See this umbrageous oak — how thick its
branches ; it is hollow too. I know it well. I will hide
in the tree, as I have often done when a boy in mere sport.
You run on.”
“ I will ; and make the trail so wide that they will
come after me.”
“But will not this lead them to the haunt?”
“ Water will throw them when I come to the swamps.
I can take care.”
“Farewell, then, my Ulric; the Saints have thee in
their holy keeping.”
The two embraced as those who might never meet
again — but as those who part in haste — and Ulric plunged
into the thicket and disappeared.
Osric lay hidden in the branches of the hollow tree.
There was a comfortable seat about ten feet from the
ground, the feet hidden in the hollow of the oak, the head
and shoulders by the thick foliage. He did not notice
that Ulric had divested himself of an upper garment he
wore, and left it accidentally or otherwise on the ground.
All was now still. The sound of the boy’s passage through
the thick bushes had ceased. The scream of the jay, the
tap of the woodpecker, the whirr of an occasional flight
of birds alone broke the silence of the forest day.
Then came a change. The crackling of dry leaves,
the low whisper of hunters, and that sound — that bell-like
sound — the bay of the hound, like a staunch murderer,
steady to his purpose, pursuing his prey relentlessly, un-
erringly, guided by that marvellous instinct of scent, which
to the pursued seemed even diabolical.
FRUSTRATED
239
At last they broke through the bushes and passed
beneath the tree — seven mounted pursuers.
“ See, here is the trail ; it is as plain as it can be,” cried
Malebouche ; for it was he, summoned in the emergency
from Shirburne, the Baron not having yet returned — six
men in company.
But the dog hesitated. They had given him a piece of
Osric’s raiment to smell before starting, and he pointed at
the tree.
Luckily the men did not see it ; for they saw on the
ground the tunic Ulric had thrown off to run, with the
unselfish intention that that should take place which now
happened, confident he could throw off the hound.
The men thrust it to the dog’s nose, thinking it Osric’s,
— they knew not there were two — and old Pluto growled,
and took the new scent with far keener avidity than
before, for now he was bidden to chase one he might tear.
Before it was a friend, the scent of whose raiment he knew
full well. They were off again.
All was silence once more around the hollow tree for a
brief space, and Osric was just about to depart and try to
limp to Lollingdune, when steps were heard again in the
distance, along the brook, where the path from the outlaws’
cave lay.
Osric peered from his covert : they were passing about
a hundred yards off.
Oh, horror ! they had got Ulric.
“ How had it chanced ? ”
Osric never knew whether the dog had overtaken him,
or what accident had happened ; all he saw was that they
had the lad, and were taking him, as he judged, to Walling-
ford, when they halted and sat down on some fallen trees,
about a hundred yards from his concealment. They had
wine, flesh, and bread, and were going to enjoy a mediaeval
picnic ; but first they tied the boy carefully to a tree, so
tightly and cruelly that he must have suffered much un-
necessary pain ; but little recked they.
240
BRIAN FITZ- COUNT
The men ate and drank, the latter copiously. So much
the worse for Ulric — drink sometimes inflames the passions
of cruelty and violence.
“ Why should we take him home ? our prey is about
here somewhere.”
“ Why not try a little torture, Sir Squire — a knotted
string round the brain? we will make him tell all he knows,
or make the young villain’s eyes start out of his forehead.”
The suggestion pleased Malebouche.
“Yes,” he said, “we may as well settle his business
here. I have a little persuader in my pocket, which I
generally carry on these errands ; it often comes useful ; ”
and he produced a small thumbscrew.
Enough; we will spare the details. They began to carry
out their intention, and soon forced a cry from their
victim — although, judging from his previous constancy, I
doubt whether they would have got more — when they heard
a sound — a voice —
“ Stop! let the lad go; he shall not be tortured for me.
I yield myself in his place.”
“ Osric ! Osric ! ”
And the men almost leapt for joy.
“ Malebouche, I am he you seek — I am your prisoner ;
but let the boy go, and take me to Wallingford.”
“ Oh, why hast thou betrayed thyself ? ” said Ulric.
“Not so fast, my young lord, for lord thou didst think
thyself — thou bastard, brought up as a falcon. Why should
I let him go ? I have you both.”
But the boy had been partially untied to facilitate their
late operations, which necessitated that the hands cruelly
bound behind the back should be released; and while
every eye was fixed on Osric, he shook off the loosened cord
which attached him to the tree, and was off like a bird.
He had almost escaped — another minute and he had been
beyond arrow-shot — when Malebouche, snatching up a bow,
sent a long arrow after him. Alas! it was aimed with Norman
skill, and it pierced through the back of the unfortunate boy,
FRUSTRATED
241
who fell dead on the grass, the blood gushing from mouth
and nose.
Osric uttered a plaintive cry of horror, and would have
hurried to his assistance, but they detained him rudely.
“Nay, leave him to rot in the woods — if the wolves
and wild cats do not bury him first.”
And they took their course for Wallingford, placing
their prisoner behind a horseman, to whom they bound
him, binding also his legs beneath the belly of the horse.
After a little while Malebouche turned to Osric —
“ What dost thou expect when our lord returns ? ”
“ Death. It is not the worst evil.”
“ But what manner of death ? ”
“ Such as may chance ; but thou knowest he will not
torture me”
“ He may hang thee.”
“ Wait and see. Thou art a murderer thyself, for whom
hanging is perhaps too good. God may have worse things
in store for thee. Thou hast committed murder and
sacrilege to-day.”
“ Sacrilege % ”
“ Yes ; thou hast seized a Crusader. Dost not see my
red cross ? ”
“It is easy to bind a bit of red rag crossways upon
one’s shoulder. Who took thy vows 1 ”
“ The Abbot of Reading ; he is now at Lollingdune.”
“ Ah, ah ! Brian Fitz-Count shall settle that little matter;
he may not approve of Crusaders who break open his castle.
Take him to Wallingford, my friends. I shall go back and
get that deer we slew just before we caught the boy; our
larder is short.”
So Malebouche rode back into the forest alone.
Let us follow him.
It was drawing near nightfall. The light fleecy clouds
which floated above were fast losing the hues of the de-
parting sun, which had tinted their western edges with
crimson; the woods were getting dim and dark; but Male-
R
242
BRIAN FITZ- COUNT
bouche persisted in his course. He had brought down a
fine young buck with his bow, and had intended to send
for it, being at that moment eager in pursuit of his human
prey ; but now he had leisure, and might throw it across
his horse, and bring it home in triumph.
Before reaching the place the road became very ill-
defined, and speedily ceased to be a road at all ; but Male-
bouche could still see the broken branches and trampled
ground along which they had pursued their prey earlier
in the day.
At last he reached the deer, and tying the horse to a
branch of a tree, proceeded to disembowel it ere he placed
it across the steed, as was the fashion; but as he was
doing this, the horse made a violent plunge, and uttered a
scream of terror. Malebouche turned — a pair of vivid eyes
were glaring in the darkness.
It was a wolf, attracted by the scent of the butchery.
Malebouche rushed to the aid of his horse, but before
he could reach the poor beast it broke through all restraint
in its agony of fear that the wolf might prefer horse-flesh
to venison, and tearing away the branch and all, galloped for
dear life away, away, towards distant Wallingford, the wolf
after it ; for when man or horse runs, the savage beast,
whether dog or wolf, seems bound to follow.
So Malebouche was left alone with his deer in the worst
possible humour.
It was useless now to think of carrying the whole
carcass home ; so he cut olf the haunch only, and throwing
it over his shoulder, started.
A storm came drifting up and obscured the rising moon
— the woods grew very dark.
Onward he tramped — wearily, wearily, tramp ! tramp !
splash ! splash !
He had got into a bog.
How to get out of it was the question. He had heard
there was a quagmire somewhere about this part of the
forest, of bottomless depth, men said.
FRUSTRATED
243
So he strove to get back to firm ground, but in the
darkness went wrong ; and the farther he went the deeper
he sank.
Up to the knees.
Now he became seriously alarmed, and abandoned his
venison.
Up to the middle.
“ Help ! help ! ” he cried.
Was there none to hear %
Yes. At this moment the clouds parted, and the
moon shone forth through a gap in their canopy — a full
moon, bright and clear.
Before him walked a boy, about fifty yards ahead.
“ Boy ! boy ! stop ! help me ! ”
The boy did not turn, but walked on, seemingly on
firm ground.
But Malebouche was intensely relieved.
“Where he can walk I can follow;” and he exerted
all his strength to overtake the boy, but he sank deeper
and deeper.
The boy seemed to linger, as if he heard the cry, and
beckoned to Malebouche to come to him.
The squire strove to do so, when all at once he found
no footing, and sank slowly.
He was in the fatal quagmire of which he had heard.
Slowly, slowly, up to the middle — up to the neck.
“ Boy, help ! help ! for Heaven’s sake ! ”
The boy stood, as it seemed, yet on firm ground. And
now he threw aside the hood that had hitherto concealed
his features, and looked Malebouche in the face.
It was the face of the murdered Ulric upon which Male-
bouche gazed ! and the whole figure vanished into empty
air as he looked.
One last despairing scream — then a sound of choking —
then the head disappeared beneath the mud — then a bubble
or two of air breaking the surface of the bog — then all was
still. And the mud kept its secret for ever.
CHAPTEE XXVIII
FATHER AND SON
Meanwhile Osric was brought back as a prisoner to the
grim stronghold where for years his position had been that
of the chartered favourite of the mighty Baron who was
the lord thereof.
When the news had spread that he was at the gates,
all the inmates of the castle — from the grim troopers to
the beardless pages — crowded to see him enter, and per-
haps to exult over the fallen favourite ; for it is not
credible that the extraordinary partiality Brian had ever
shown Osric should have failed to excite jealousy, although
his graceful and unassuming bearing had done much to
mollify the feeling in the hearts of many.
And there was nought common or mean in his behaviour;
nor, on the other hand, aught defiant or presumptuous. All
was simple and natural.
“ Think you they will put him to the torture % ” said a
youngster.
“ They dare not till the Baron returns,” said his senior.
“And then?”
“ I doubt it.”
“ The rope, then, or the axe ? ”
“ Perchance the latter.”
“ But he is not of gentle blood.”
“ Who knows ? ”
“ If it were you or I ? ”
“ Hanging would be too good for us.”
In the courtyard the party of captors awaited the orders
FATHER AND SON
245
of the Lady Maude, now regent in her stern husband’s
absence. They soon came.
“ Confine him strictly, but treat him well.”
So he was placed in the prison reserved for the captives
of gentle birth, or entitled to special distinction, in the
new buildings of Brian’s Close ; and Tustain gnashed his
teeth, for he longed to have the torturing of him.
Unexpected guests arrived at the castle that night — that
is, unexpected by those who were not in the secret of the
letters Osric had written and the Baron had sent out when
Osric last played his part of secretary — Milo, Earl of
Hereford, and Sir Alain of St. Maur, some time page at
Wallingford.
At the banquet the Lady Maude, sorely distressed, con-
fided her griefs to her guests.
“We all trusted him. That he should betray us is
past bearing.”
“Have you not put him on the rack to learn who
bought him % ”
“ I could not. It is as if my own son had proved false.
We all loved him.”
“Yet he was not of noble birth, I think.”
“ No. Do you not remember the hunt in which you
took part when my lord first found him ? Well, the boy,
for he was a mere lad of sixteen then, exercised a wonder-
ful glamour over us all ; and, as Alain well knows, he rose
rapidly to be my lord’s favourite squire, and would soon
have won his spurs, for he was brave — was Osric.”
“ Lady, may I see him ? He knows me well ; and I
trust to learn the secret,” said Alain.
“ Take this ring; it will ope the doors of his cell to thee.”
“ And take care tliou dost not make use of it to empty
Brian’s Close,” said Milo ironically.
Alain laughed, and proceeded on his mission.
“ Osric, my fellow-page and brother, what is the meaning
of this 1 why art thou here ] ”
246
BRIAN FIT Z- COUNT
He extended his hand. Osric grasped it.
“ Dost thou not know I did a Christlike deed 1 ”
“ Christlike % ”
“ Yes. Did He not open the prison doors of Hell when
He descended thither, and let the captives out of Limbus ?
I daresay the Dragon did not like it.”
“ Osric, the subject is too serious for jesting.”
“ I am not jesting.”
“ But what led thee to break thy faith h ”
“ My faith to a higher Master than even the Lord of
Wallingford, to whom I owed so much.”
“ The Church never taught me that much : if all we do is
so wrong, why are we not excommunicated ? Why, we are
allowed our chapel, our chaplain — who troubles himself
little about what goes on — our Masses ! and we shall easily
buy ourselves out of Purgatory when all is over.”
Too true, Alain ; the Church did grievously neglect her
duty at Wallingford and elsewhere, and passively allow
such dreadful dens of tyranny to exist. But Osric had
learnt better.
“ I do not believe you will buy yourselves out. The old
priest who served our little church once quoted a Saint —
I think they called him ‘Augustine ’ — who said such things
could only profit those whose lives merited that they should
profit them. But you did not come here to discuss religion.”
“No, indeed. Tell me what changed your mind ?”
“Things that I heard at my grandfather’s deathbed,
which taught me I had been aiding and abetting in the
Devil’s work.”
“ Devil’s work, Osric ! The tiger preys upon the deer,
the wolf on the sheep, the fox on the hen, the cat on the
bird, — it is so all through creation ; and we do the same.
Did the Devil ordain the laws of nature ? ”
“ God forbid. But men are brethren.”
“ Brethren are we ! Do you think I call the vile canaille
my brethren 1 — not I. The base fluid which circulates intheir
veins is not like the generous blood which flows in the veins
FATHER AND SON
247
of the noble and gallant. I have no more sympathy with
such folk than the cat with the mouse. Her nature, which
God gave, teaches her to torture, much as we torment our
captives in Brian’s Close or elsewhere ; but knights, nobles,
gentlemen, — they are my brethren. We slay each other
in generous emulation, — in the glorious excitement of
battle, — but we torture them not. Noblesse oblige .”
“ I cannot believe in the distinction; and you will find out
I am right some day, and that the blood of your victims,
the groans of your captives, will be visited on your head.”
“ Osric, you are one of the conquered race, — is it not
so ? Sometimes I doubted it.”
“ I am one of your victims ; and I would sooner be of
the sufferers than of the tyrants.”
“ I can say no more ; something has spoilt a noble
nature. Do you not dread Brian’s return ? ”
“ No.”
“Why not? I should in your place. He loved you.”
“I have a secret to tell him which, methinks, will ex-
plain all.”
“ Wilt not tell it me ? ”
“ No ; I may not yet.”
And Alain took his departure sorrowfully, none the
wiser.
The sound of trumpets — the beating of drums. The
Baron returns. He enters the proud castle, which he calls
his own, with downcast head. The scene in the woods
near Byfield has sobered him.
One more grievous blow awaits him, — one to wound him
in his tenderest feelings, perhaps the only soft spot in
that hard heart. What a mystery was hidden in his
whole relation to Osric! What could have made the tiger
love the fawn ? Was it some deep mysterious working of
nature ?
Can the reader guess ? Probably, or he has read our
tale to little purpose.
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BRIAN FITZ- COUNT
Osric knows it is coming. He braces himself for the
interview. He prays for support and wisdom.
The door opens — Brian enters.
He stands still, and gazes upon Osric for full five
minutes ere he speaks.
“Osric, what means this?”
“ I have but done my duty. Pardon me, my lord, but
the truth must be spoken now.”
“ Thy duty ! to break thy faith ?”
“ To man but not to God.”
“Osric, what causes this change? I trusted thee, I
loved thee, as never I loved youth before. Thou hast
robbed me of my confidence in man.”
“ My lord, I will tell thee. At my grandfather’s dying
bed I learnt a secret I knew not before.”
“And that secret?”
“ I am the son of Wulfnoth of Compton.”
“ So thy grandfather told me — I knew it.”
“But I knew not that thou didst slay my kindred —
that my mother perished under thy hands in her burning
house — and I alone escaped. Had I known it, could I
have loved and served thee ? — Never.”
“And yet repenting of that deed, I have striven to
atone for it by my conduct to thee.”
“ Couldst thou hope to do so ? nay, I acknowledge thy
kindness.”
“ And thou wouldst open my castle to the foe and slay
me in return?”
“ No ; we shed no blood — only delivered the helpless.
Thou hadst made me take part in the slaughter, the torture
of mine own helpless countrymen, whose blood God will
surely require at our hands, if we repent not. I have
repented, but I could not harm thee. See, I had taken the
Cross, and was on my way to the Holy Wars, when thy
minions seized me and brought me back.”
“ Thou hast taken the Cross ?”
“ I have.”
FATHER AND SON
249
“ I know not whether thou dost think that I can let
thee go : it would destroy all discipline in my castle.
Right and left, all clamour for thy life. The late-comers
from Ardennes swear they will desert if such order is
kept as thy forgiveness would denote. Nay, Osric, thou
must die ; but thy death shall be that of a noble, to which
by birth thou art not entitled.”
The choking of the voice, the difficulty of utterance
which accompanied this last speech, showed the deep sorrow
with which Brian spoke. Brutus sacrificing his sons may
have shown less emotion. Osric felt it deeply.
“My lord, do what you think your duty, and behead
your former favourite. I forgive you all you have done, and
may think it right yet to do. I die in peace with you
and the world.”
And Osric turned his face to the wall.
The Baron left the cell, where he found his fortitude
deserting him.
As he appeared on the ramparts he heard all round the
muttered words —
“ Death to the traitor ! death !”
At last he spoke out fiercely.
“Stop your throats, ye hounds, barking and whining
for blood. Justice shall be done. Here, Alain, seek the
doomster Coupe-gorge and the priest ; send the priest to
your late friend, and tell the doomster to get his axe
ready ; tell Osric thyself he dies at sundown.”
A loud shout of exultation.
Brian gnashed his teeth.
“ Bring forth my steed.”
The steed was brought.
He turned to a pitying knight who stood by, the
deputy-governor in his absence.
“ If I return not, delay not the execution after sunset.
Let it be on the castle green.”
A choking sensation — he put his hand to his mouth ;
when he withdrew it, it was tinged with blood.
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BRIAN FI TZ- COUNT
He dashed the spurs into his steed; the drawbridges
fell before him ; he rode at full gallop along the route by
the brook described in our second chapter. Whither was
he bound %
For Cwichelm’s Hlawe.
It is a wonder that he was not thrown over and over
again; but chance often protects the reckless while the
careful die. He rides through the forest over loose stones
— over protruding roots of trees — still he kept his seat; he
flew like the whirlwind, but he escaped projecting branches.
In an hour he was ascending the slope from Chiltune to
the summit of the hill.
He reined his panting steed at the foot of the barrow.
“ Hag, come forth ! ”
No reply.
He tied up his steed to a tree and entered her dread
abode — the ancient sepulchre.
She sat over the open stone coffin with its giant
skeleton.
“ Here thou art then, witch !”
“What does Brian Fitz-Count want of me ?”
“ I seek thee as Saul sought the Witch of Endor — in
dire trouble. The boy, old Sexwulf’s grandson” — he
could not frame his lips to say Wulfnoth’s son — “has
proved false to me.”
“ Why hast thou not smitten him, and ridden thyself of
‘ so frail an encumbrance ’ ?”
“ I could not.”
“ Did I not tell thee so long syne ? ah, ha !”
“ Tell me, thou witch, why does the death of a peasant
rend my very heart ? Tell me, didst thou not give me a
philter, a potion or something, when I was here ? My
heart burns — what is it V’
“Brian Fitz-Count, there is one who can solve the
riddle — seek him.”
“Who is he?”
“ Bide at once to Dorchester Abbey — waste no time —
FATHER AND SON
251
ask to see Father Alphege, he shall tell thee all. When
is the boy to die ?”
“At sundown.”
“ Then there is no time to be lost. It is now the ninth
hour ; thou hast but three hours. Bide, ride, man ! if he
die before thy return, thy heart-strings will crack. Eide,
man, ride ! if ever thou didst ride — Dorchester first,
Father Alphege, then Wallingford Castle.”
Brian rushed from the cavern — he gave full rein to
his horse — he drove his spurs deep into the sides of the
poor beast.
Upon the north-east horizon stood the two twin clumps
of Synodune, about ten miles off; he fixed his eyes upon
them ; beyond them lay Dorchester ; he descended the
hill at a dangerous pace, and made for those landmarks.
He rode through Harwell — passed the future site of
Didcot Station, where locomotives now hiss and roar — he
left the north Moor-town on the right — he crossed the
valley between the twin hills — he swam the river, for the
water was high at the ford — he passed the gates of the
old cathedral city. Every one trembled as they saw him,
and hid from his presence. He dismounted at the abbey
gates.
The porter hesitated to open.
“ I have come to see Father Alphege — open ! ”
“ This is not Wallingford Castle,” said the daring
porter, strong in monastic immunities.
Brian remembered where he was, and sobered down.
“ Then I would fain see the Abbot at once : life or
death hang upon it.”
“ Thou mayst enter the hospitium and wait his pleasure.”
He waited nearly half an hour. They kept him on purpose,
to show him that he was not the great man at Dorchester
he was at Wallingford. But they were unwittingly cruel ;
they knew not his need.
Meanwhile the Abbot sought Father Alphege, and told
him who sought him.
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BRIAN FIT Z- COUNT
“ Canst thou bear to see him ? ”
“ I can ; it is the will of Heaven.”
“ Then he shall see thee in the church ; the sacred
house of God will restrain you both. Enter the con-
fessional ; he shall seek thee there.”
Then the Abbot sought Brian.
“ Come with me and I will show thee him thou
seekest.”
Brian was faint with exhaustion, but the dire need,
the terrible expectation of some awful secret, held him up.
He had had no food that day, but he recked not.
The Abbot Alured led him into the church.
The confessional was a stone cell1 in the thickness of
the wall, entered by the priest from a side chapel. The
penitent approached from the opposite side of the wall
from the nave of the church.
“I am not come to make a confession — yes I am,
though, yet not an ordinary one.”
“ Go to that aperture, and through it thou mayst tell your
grief, or whatever thou hast to say, to Father Alphege.”
Brian went to the spot, but he knelt not.
“ Father Alphege, is it thou ? ” he said.
“It is I. What does Brian Fitz-Count seek of me?
Art thou a penitent ? ”
“ I know not. A witch sent me to thee.”
“ A witch ? ”
“ Yes — Hertha of Cwichelm’s Hlawe.”
“ Why?”
“Listen. I adopted a boy, the son of a man I had
slain, partly, I think, to atone for a crime once committed,
wherein I fired his house, and burnt his kith and kin, save
this one boy. I loved him ; he won his way to my heart ;
he seemed like my own son ; and then he betrayed me.
And now he is doomed to death.”
“ To die when ? ” almost shrieked the priest.
“ At sundown.”
1 The like may be still seen in the great church at Warwick.
FATHER AND SON
253
“ God of Mercy ! he must not die. Wouldst thou slay
thy son 1 ”
“ He is not my son by blood — I only meant by adoption.”
“Listen, Brian Fitz-Count, to words of solemn truth,
although thou wilt find them hard to believe. He is thine
own son — the son of thy bowels.”
Brian felt as if his head would burst beneath the aching
brain. A cold sweat bedewed him.
“Prove it,” he said.
“ I will. Brian Fitz-Count, I am Wulfnoth of Compton.”
“ Thou I slew thee on the downs in mortal combat.”
“ Nay, I yet breathed. The good monks of Dorchester
passed by and brought me here. I took the vows, and
here I am. Now listen : thou didst slay my loved and
dearest ones, but I can forgive thee now. Canst thou in
turn forgive me 1 ”
“ Forgive thee what ? ”
“ In my revenge, I robbed thee of thy son and brought
him up as my own.”
“But Sexwulf swore that the lad was his grandson.”
“ He believed it. I wilfully deceived him ; but the old
nurse Judith has the proofs — a ring with thy crest, a lock
of maiden’s hair.”
“ Good God ! they were his mother’s, and hung about
his little neck when we lost him. Man, how couldst thou ? ”
“Thou didst slay all mine, and I made thee feel like
pangs. And when the boy came to me after his deadly
breach with thee, although I had forgiven thee, I could not
tell him the truth, lest I should send him to be a murderer
like unto thee ; but I did my best for him. I sent him
to the Holy Wars, and ”
He discovered that he spake but to the empty air.
Brian was gone.
A crowd was on the green sward of the castle, which filled
the interior between the buildings. In the centre rose a
scaffold, whereon was the instrument of death, the block,
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BRIAN FITZ- COUNT
the axe. A priest stood by the side of the victim, and
soothed him with holy rite and prayer. The executioner
leant on his axe.
From the courtyard — the green of the castle — the sun
was no longer visible ; but the watchman on the top of
the keep saw him from that giddy height descending like
a ball of fire towards Cwichelm’s Hlawe. It was his to
give the signal when the sun sank behind the hill.
Every window was full — every coigne of vantage to see
the sight. Alas ! human nature is ever the same. Witness
the precincts of the Old Bailey on hanging mornings in
our grandfathers’ days !
The man on the keep saw the sun actually touch the
trees on the summit of the distant hill, and bathe them
in fiery light. Another minute and all would be over.
In the intense silence, the galloping of a horse was
heard — a horse strong and powerful. Down went the
drawbridges.
The man on the keep saw, and omitted to give the
signal, as the sun disappeared.
“ Hold ! hold ! ” cried a commanding voice.
It was Brian on his foaming steed. He looked as none
had ever seen him look before ; but joy was on his face.
He was in time, and no more.
“ Take him to my chamber, priest ; executioner, put up
thine axe, there will be no work for it to-day. Men of
Wallingford, Osric is my son — my own son — the son of my
bowels. I cannot spare you my son. Thank God, I am
in time.”
Into that chamber we cannot follow them. The scene
is beyond our power of description. It was Nature which
had all the time been speaking in that stern father’s heart,
and now she had her way.
On the following morning a troop left Wallingford
Castle for Reading Abbey. The Baron rode at its head,
FATHER AND SON
255
and by his side rode Osric. Through Moulsford, and
Streatley, and Pangbourne — such are their modern names
— they rode ; the Thames on their left hand, the downs
on their right. The gorgeous abbey, in the freshness of
its early youth, rose before them. Would we had space
to describe its glories ! They entered, and Brian presented
Osric to the Abbot.
“ Here, my lord Abbot, is the soldier of the Cross whom
thou didst enroll. He is lame as yet, from an accident, but
will soon be ready for service. Meanwhile he would fain
be thy guest.”
The Abbot was astonished.
“ What has chanced, my son ? We wondered that thou
didst not rejoin us, and feared thou hadst faltered.”
“ He has found a father, who restrained his freedom.”
“A father ? ”
“ But who now gives his boy to thee. Osric is my son.”
The Abbot was astonished ; as well he might be.
“ Go, my Osric, to the hospitium ; let me speak to my
lord Abbot alone.”
And Brian told his story, not without strong emotion.
“What wilt thou do now, my Lord of Wallingford ?”
“ He shall fulfil his vow, for himself and for me. But,
my lord, my sins have come home to me. What shall I
do ? Would I could go with him ! but my duties, my
plighted faith to my Queen, restrain me. Even to-morrow
the leaders of our cause meet at Wallingford Castle.”
“ Into politics we enter not here. But thy sin, if thou
hast sinned, God hath left the means of forgiveness.
Bepent — confess — thou shall be loosed from all.”
“ I have not been shriven for a long time, but I will
be now.”
“ Father Osmund is a meet confessor.”
“Hay, the man whom I wronged shall shrive me both
as priest and man — so shall I feel forgiven.”
They parted — the father and son — and Brian rode to
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BRIAN FITZ- COUNT
Dorchester, and sought Father Alphege again. Into the
solemn secrets of that interview we may not enter. No
empty form was there ; priest and penitent mingled their
tears, and ere the formal absolution was pronounced by
the priest they forgave each other as men, and then turned
to Him of Whom it is written —
“ Yea, like as a father pitieth his own children,
Even so is the Lord merciful unto them that fear Him.”
And taught by adversity, Brian feared Him now.
CHAPTER XXIX
IN THE HOLY LAND
“ Last scene of all,
Which ends this strange eventful history.”
Our tale is all but told. Osric reached the Holy Land in
safety, more fortunate than many of his fellows ; and there,
bearing Brian’s recommendations and acknowledged as his
son, joined the order of the Knights Templars, — that splendid
order which was astonishing the world by its valour and
its achievements, whose members were half monks, half
warriors, and wore the surplice over the very coat of mail ;
having their chief church in the purified Mosque of Omar,
on the site of the Temple of Jerusalem, and their mission
to protect pilgrims and defend the Holy City.
He was speedily admitted to knighthood, a distinction
his valour fully justified ; and we leave him — gratifying
both the old and the new man : the old man in his love
of fighting, the new man in his self-conquest — a far nobler
thing after all. It was a combination sanctioned by the
holiest, best men of that age ; such as St. Bernard, whose
hymns still occupy a foremost place in our worship.1
Brian still continued his warlike career, but there was a
great change in his mode of warfare. Wallingford Castle
was no longer sullied by unnecessary cruelties. Coupe-
gorge and Tustain had an easy time of it.
In 1152 Stephen again besieged Wallingford, but the
skill and valour of Brian Fitz-Count forced him to retreat.
1 As the admirers of Captain Hedley Vicars and other military
Christians sanction the combination even now.
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BRIAN FITZ- COUNT
Again, having reduced the Castle of Newbury, he returned,
and strove to reduce the place by famine, blocking them in
on every side ; so that they were forced to send a message
to Henry Plantagenet to come to their aid from Normandy.
He embarked in January 1153 with three thousand foot
and a hundred and forty horse. Most of the great nobles
of the west joined his standard in his passage through
England, and he was in time to relieve Wallingford,
besieging the besiegers in their Crowmarsh fort. Stephen
came in turn to relieve them with the barons who adhered
to his standard, accompanied by his son, the heir presump-
tive, Eustace, animated with strong emulation against
Henry. On his approach, Henry made a sudden sally, and
took by storm the fort at the head of the bridge, which
Stephen had erected the year before, and following the cruel
customs of the war, caused all the defenders to be beheaded
on the bridge. Then leaving a sufficient force to bridle
Crowmarsh, Henry marched out with great alacrity to offer
Stephen a pitched battle and decide the war. He had not
gone far when he found Stephen encamped on Cholsey
Common, and both sides prepared for battle with eagerness.
But the Earl of Arundel, assembling all the nobility and
principal leaders, addressed them.
“ It is now fourteen years since the rage of civil war first
infected the kingdom. During that melancholy period
what blood has been shed, what desolation and misery
brought on the people ! The laws have lost their force ; the
Crown its authority ; this great and noble nation has been
delivered over as a prey to the basest of foreigners, — the
abominable scum of Flanders, Brabant, and Brittany, —
robbers rather than soldiers, restrained by no laws, Divine
or human, — instruments of all tyranny, cruelty, and violence.
At the same time our cruel neighbours the Welsh and the
Scotch, taking advantage of our distress, have ravaged our
borders. And for what good ? When Maude was Queen,
she alienated all hearts by her pride and violence, and
made them regret Stephen. And when Stephen returned
to power, he made them regret Maude. He discharged not
IN THE HOLY LAND
259
his foreign hirelings ; but they have lived ever since at free-
quarters, plundering our houses, burning our cities, preying
upon the very bowels of the land, like vultures upon a
dying beast. Now, here are two new armies of Angevins,
Gascons, and what not. If Henry conquer, he must confis-
cate our property to repay them, as the Conqueror that of
the English, after Senlac. If Stephen conquer, have we
any reason to think he will reign better than before ?
Therefore let us make a third party — that of peace. Let
Stephen reign (with proper restraint) for life, and Henry, as
combining the royal descent of both nations, succeed him.”
The proposal was accepted with avidity, with loud shouts,
“ So be it : God wills it.”
Astonishment and rage seized Eustace, thus left out in
the cold ; but his father, weary of strife, gave way, and
Stephen and Henry met within a little distance from the
two camps, in a meadow near Wallingford, the river flowing
between the two armies — which had been purposely so dis-
posed to prevent collision — and the conditions of peace were
virtually settled on the river-bank.
Eustace went off in a great rage with the knights of
his own household, and ravaged the country right and left,
showing what an escape England had in his disappointment.
His furious passion, coupled with violent exertion, brought
on a brain fever, of which he died. Alas, poor young
prince ! But his death saved thousands of innocent lives,
and brought peace to poor old England. The treaty was
finally concluded in November 1153, in the fourteenth year
of the war. Stephen died the following year, and Henry
quietly succeeded ; who sent the free-lances back to the
continent, and demolished one thousand one hundred and
fifteen robbers’ castles.
“ Peace and no more from out its brazen portals
The blasts of war’s great organ shake the skies,
But beautiful as songs of the immortals,
The holy harmonies of peace arise.”
And now Brian Fitz-Count could carry out his heart’s
desire, and follow Osric to the Crusades. His wife, Maude
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BRIAN FI TZ- COUNT
of Wallingford, had before retired into Normandy, weary
of strife and turmoil, and taken the veil, with his consent,
in a convent connected with the great monastery of Bee.
In the chamber overlooking the south terrace, the
river, and the glacis, once the bower of Maude d’Oyley, sat
the young King Henry. He was of ruddy countenance
and well favoured, like David of old. His chest was
broad but his stature short, his manners graceful and
dignified.
Before him stood the lord of the castle.
“ And so thou wilt leave us ! For the sake of thy long
and great services to our cause, I would fain have retained
thee here.”
“ My liege, I wish to atone for a life of violence and
bloodshed. I must save my poor soul.”
“ Hast thou sinned more than other men ? ”
“I know not, only that I repent me of my life of
violence : I have been a man of blood from my youth, and
I go to the tomb of Him Who bled for me that I may lay
my sins there.”
“ And who shall succeed thee here ? ”
“ I care not. I have neither kith nor kin save one — a
Knight Templar. A noble soldier, but, by the rules of
his stern order, he is pledged to poverty, chastity, and
obedience.”
“ I have heard that the Templars abound in those virtues,
but they are a monastic body, and can hold no property
independently of their noble order ; and I have no wish to
see Wallingford Castle a fief of theirs.”
“ I leave it all to thee, my liege, and only ask permission
to say farewell.”
“ God be with thee, since go thou must.”
Brian kissed the royal hand and was gone.
Once he looked back at the keep of Wallingford Castle
from the summit of Nuffield in the Chilterns, on his road
to London en route for the sea. Ah ! what a look was
that !
He never saw it again.
IN THE HOLY LAND
261
And when he had gone one of the first acts of the king
was to seize as an “escheat” the Castle and honour of
Wallingford which Brian Fitz-Count and Maude his wife,
having entered the religious life, had ceased to hold.
The sun was setting in the valley between Mount Ebal
and Mount Gerizim — the mountains of blessing and cursing.
In the entrance to the gorge, thirty-four miles from Jeru-
salem and fifteen south of Samaria, was the village of El
Askar, once called Sychar.
An ancient well, surmounted by an alcove more than a
hundred feet deep — the gift of Jacob to his son Joseph —
was to be seen hard by ; and many pilgrims paused and
drank where the Son of God once slaked His human thirst.
The rounded mass of Ebal lay to the south-east of the
valley, of Gerizim to the north-west; at the foot of the
former lay the village.
As in that olden time, it yet wanted four months of
harvest. The corn-fields were still green ; the foliage of
leafy trees afforded delicious shades, as when He sat weary
by that well, old even then.
Oh what memories of blessing and cursing, of Jacob
and Joseph, of Joshua and Gideon, clung to that sacred
spot ! But, like stars in the presence of a sun, their lustre
paled at the remembrance that His sacred Feet trod that
hallowed soil.
In a whitewashed caravansary of El Askar lay a dying
penitent, — a pilgrim returning from Jerusalem, then
governed by a Christian king. He seemed prematurely
old, — worn out by the toils of the way and the change of
climate and mode of life. He lacked not worldly wealth,
which there, as elsewhere, commanded attention ; yet his
feet were blistered and sore, for he had of choice travelled
barefoot to the Holy Sepulchre.
A military party was passing along the vale, bound
from Acre to Jerusalem, clad in flexible mail from head to
foot ; armed, for the rules of their order forbade them ever
to lay their arms aside. But over their armour long
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BRIAN FITZ- COUNT
monastic mantles of scarlet were worn, with a huge white
cross on the left shoulder. They were of the array of the
Knights Templars. Soldiers, yet monks ! of such high
renown that scarcely a great family in Europe but was
represented in their ranks. Their diet was simple, their
discipline exact ; they shunned no hardship, declined no
combat ; they had few ties to life, but were prepared to
sacrifice all for the sake of the holy warfare and the
Temple of God. Their homes, their churches, lacked
ornament, and were rigidly simple, as became their vow
of poverty. Never yet had they disgraced their holy
calling, or neglected to bear their white banner into the
heart of the foe; so that the Moslem trembled at the
war-cry of the Templars — “ God and His Temple.”
Such were the Templars in their early days.
The leader of this particular party was a knight in the
prime of life, of noble, prepossessing bearing; who managed
his horse as if rider and steed were one, like the Centaur
of old.
They encamped for the night in the open, hard by the
Sacred Well.
Scarcely were the camp-fires lit, when a villager sought
an audience of the commander, which was at once granted.
“Noble seigneur,” he said, “a Christian pilgrim lies
dying at the caravansary hard by, and craves the consola-
tions of religion. Thou art both monk and soldier ? ”
“ I am.”
“ And wilt visit the dying man ? ”
“At once.”
And only draining a goblet of wine and munching a
crust, the leader followed the guide, retaining his arms,
according to rule ; first telling his subordinate in command
where he was going.
On the slopes of the eastern hill stood the caravansary,
built in the form of a hollow square ; the courtyard de-
voted to horses and cattle, chambers opening all round
the inner colonnade, with windows looking outward upon
the country.
IN THE HOLY LAND
263
There the Templar was taken to a chamber, where,
upon a rude pallet, was stretched the dying man.
“Thou art ill, my brother; canst thou converse with
me?”
“ God has left me that strength.”
“ With what tongue dost thou adore the God of our
fathers 1 ”
“ English or French. But who art thou ? ”
The dying man raised himself up on his elbows.
“ Osric ! ”
“ My father ! ”
It was indeed Brian Fitz-Count who lay dying on that
couch. They embraced fervently.
“ Nunc dimittis servum tuum Domine in pace” he said.
“ Osric, my son, is yet alive — I see him: God permits me to
see him, to gladden my eyes. Osric, thou shalt close them;
and here shalt thou bury thy father.”
“ Tell me, my sire, hast thou long arrived ? why have
we not met before % ”
“ I have been to J erusalem ; I have wept on Calvary ;
I have prayed at the Holy Sepulchre ; and there I have
received the assurance that He has cast my sins behind
my back, and blotted them out, nailing them to His Cross.
I then sought thee, and heard thou wert at Acre, at the
commandery of St. John. I sought thee, but passed thee
on the road unwittingly. Then I retraced my steps ; but
the malaria, which ever hangs about the ruins of old cities,
has prostrated me. My hours are numbered ; but what have
I yet to live for1? no, Nunc dimittis , nunc dimittis , Domine;
quia oculi mei viderunt salutare Tuum”
And he sank back as in ecstasy, holding still the hand
of his son, and covering it with kisses.
The setting sun cast a flood of glory on the vale beneath,
on Jacob’s Well.
Once more the sick man rose on his bed, and gazed on
the sacred spot where once the Redeemer sat, and talked
with the woman of Samaria.
“ He sat there, weary, weary, seeking His sheep ; and I
264
BRIAN FITZ- COUNT
am one. He has found me. Oh my God, Thon didst thirst
for my soul ; let that thirst he satisfied.”
Then to Osric —
“ Hast thou not a priest in thy troop, my son ? ”
“ Our chaplain is with us.”
“ Let him bring me the Viaticum. I am starting on
my last long journey, I want my provision for the way.”
The priest arrived ; the last rites were administered.
“ Like David of old, I have been a man of blood ; like
him, I have repented that I have shed innocent blood,”
said the sick penitent.
“And like Nathan, I tell thee, my brother,” said the
priest, “that the Lord hath put away thy sin.”
“And my faith accepts the blessed assurance.”
“ Osric, my son, let me bless thee before I die ; thou
dost not know, canst never know on earth, what thou didst
for me.”
“God bless thee too, my father. We shall meet before
His throne when time shall be no more.”
He fell back as if exhausted, and for a long time lay
speechless. At last he raised himself on his elbow and
looked steadfastly up.
“ Hark ! they are calling the roll-call above.”
He listened intently for a moment, then, as if he had
heard his own name, he answered —
“ADSUM.”
And Brian Fitz-Count was no more.
THE END
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Editor of the ' Dictionary of Theology,’ ‘ Annotated Book of Common Prayer,’ etc., etc.
Body’s Life of Temptation.
Sixth Edition. Crown 8 vo. 4 s. 6d.
The Life of Temptation. A Course of Lectures delivered in sub-
stance at St. Peter’s, Eaton Square ; also at All Saints’, Margaret
Street.
By the Rev. George Body, D.D.,
Canon of Durham.
Contents.
The Leading into Temptation — The Rationale of Temptation— Why we are
Tempted — Safety in Temptation — With Jesus in Temptation — The End of
Temptation.
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Knox Little’s Manchester Sermons.
Second Edition. Crown 8 vo. 7s. 6d.
Sermons Preached for the most part in Manchester.
By the Rev. W. J. Knox Little, M.A.,
Canon Residentiary of Worcester, and Vicar of Hoar Cross.
(Contents.
The Soul instructed by God — The Claim of God upon the Soul —The Super-
natural Powers of the Soul — The Soul in its Inner Life — The Soul in the World
and at the Judgment — The Law of Preparation — The Principle of Preparation
— The Temper of Preparation — The Energy of Preparation — The Soul’s Need
and God’s Nature — The Martyr of Jesus — The Secret of Prophetic Power — The
Law of Sacrifice — The Comfort of God — The Symbolism of the Cross — The
Beatitude of Mary, the Mother of the Lord.
Knox Little’s Christian Life.
Third Edition. Crown 8z >0. 3J. 6d.
Characteristics and Motives of the Christian Life. Ten
Sermons preached in Manchester Cathedral in Lent and Advent
1877.
By the Rev. W. J. Knox Little, M.A.,
Canon Residentiary of Worcester, and Vicar of Hoar Cross.
(Contexts.
Christian Work — Christian Advance — Christian Watching — Christian Battle —
Christian Suffering — Christian Joy — For the Love of Man — For the sake of
Jesus— For the Glory of God — The Claims of Christ.
Knox Little’s Witness of the Passion.
Crown 8 vo. 3s1. 6d.
The Witness of the Passion of our Most Holy Redeemer.
By the Rev. W. J. Knox Little, M.A.,
Canon Residentiary of Worcester, and Vicar of Hoar Cross.
WLautloo place, JLottium.
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Williams’s Devotional Commentary.
New Edition. Eight Vols. Crown 2>vo. 5s. each. Sold separately.
A Devotional Commentary on the Gospel Narrative.
By the Rev. Isaac Williams, B.D.,
Formerly Fellow of Trinity College, Oxford.
THOUGHTS ON THE STUDY OF THE HOLY GOSPELS.
A HARMONY OF THE FOUR EVANGELISTS.
OUR LORD’S NATIVITY.
OUR LORD’S MINISTRY (Second Year).
OUR LORD’S MINISTRY (Third Year).
THE HOLY WEEK.
OUR LORD’S PASSION.
OUR LORD’S RESURRECTION.
Voices of Comfort.
New Edition. Crown 8 vo. 7 s. 6 d.
Voices of Comfort.
Edited by the Rev. Thomas Vincent Fosbery, M.A.,
Sometime Vicar of St. Giles's, Oxford.
This Volume of prose and poetry, original and selected, aims at revealing
the fountains of hope and joy which underlie the griefs and sorrows of life.
It is so divided as to afford readings for a month. The keynote of each day is
given to the title prefixed to it, such as : ‘ The Power of the Cross of Christ,
Day 6. Conflicts of the Soul, Day 17. The Communion of Saints, Day 20.
The Comforter, Day 22. The Light of Hope, Day 25. The Coming of Christ,
Day 28.’ Each day begins with passages of Holy Scripture. These are fol-
lowed by articles in prose, which are succeeded by one or more short prayers.
After these are poems or passages of poetry, and then very brief extracts in
prose or verse close the section. The book is meant to meet, not merely cases
of bereavement or physical suffering, but ‘ to minister specially to the hidden
troubles of the heart, as. they are silently weaving their dark threads into the
web of the seemingly brightest life.’
Also a Cheap Edition. Small 8 vo. 3$. 6d.
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The Star of Childhood.
Fourth Edition. Royal i6mo. 2 s. 6d.
The Star of Childhood : a First Book of Prayers and Instruction
for Children.
Compiled by a Priest.
Edited by the Rev. T. T. Carter, M.A.
With Illustrations after Fra Angelico.
The Guide to Heaven.
New Edition. 18 mo. is. 6 d. ; Cloth limp , is.
The Guide to Heaven : a Book of Prayers for every Want. For
the Working Classes.
Compiled by a Priest.
Edited by the Rev. T. T. Carter, M.A.
An Edition in Large Type. Crown Zvo. is. 6d. ; Cloth limp , is.
H. L. Sidney Lear's For Days and Years.
New Edition. 1 6mo. 2 s. 6d.
For Days and Years. A Book containing a Text, Short Reading
and Hymn for Every Day in the Church’s Year.
Selected by H. L. Sidney Lear.
A Iso a Cheap Edition. 22mo, is. : or Cloth gilt, is. 6 d.
Williams on the Epistles and Gospels.
New Edition. Two Vols. Crown 8 vo. 5 s. each.
Sold separately.
Sermons on the Epistles and Gospels for the Sundays
and Holy Days throughout the Year.
By the Rev. Isaac Williams, B.D.,
Author of a ' Devotional Commentary on the Gospel Narrative.’
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Crown 8 vo. 7 s. 6d.
Parochial Sermons, chiefly preached at Brighstone, Isle of Wight.
By George Moberly, D.C.L.,
Late Bishop of Salisbury.
(Contents.
The Night is far spent, the Day is at hand — Elijah, the Warner of the
Second Advent of the Lord — Christmas — Epiphany — The Rich Man and
Lazarus — The Seventh Day Rest — I will arise and go to my Father — Con-
firmation, a Revival — Korah — The Law of Liberty — Buried with Him in
Baptism — The Waiting Church of the Hundred and Twenty — Whitsun Day.
I will not leave you comfortless — Whitsun Day. Walking after the Spirit
— The Barren Fig Tree — Depart from me ; for I am a sinful man, O Lord —
Feeding the Four Thousand — We are debtors — He that thinketh he standeth
— The Strength of Working Prayer — Elijah’s Sacrifice — If thou hadst known,
even thou — Harvest Thanksgiving — Jonadab, the Son of Rechab — The Trans-
figuration ; Death and Glory — Welcome to Everlasting Habitations — The
Question of the Sadducees.
Moberly’s Plain Sermons.
New Edition. Crown 8 vo. 5s.
Plain Sermons, Preached at Brighstone.
By George Moberly, D.C.L.,
Late Bishop of Salisbury.
(Contents.
Except a man be born again — The Lord with the Doctors — The Draw-Net — I
will lay me down in peace — Ye have not so learned Christ — Trinity Sunday —
My Flesh is Meat indeed — The Corn of Wheat dying and multiplied — The Seed
Corn springing to new life — I am the Way, the Truth, and the Life — The Ruler
of the Sea — Stewards of the Mysteries of God — Ephphatha — The Widow of
Nain — Josiah’s discovery of the Law — The Invisible. World : Angels — Prayers,
especially Daily Prayers — They all with one consent began to make excuse —
Ascension Day — 1’he Comforter — The Tokens of the Spirit — Elijah’s Warning,
Fathers and Children — Thou shalt see them no more for ever — Baskets full of
fragments — Harvest — The Marriage Supper of the Lamb — The Last Judgment.
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Luckock’s Footprints of the Son of Man.
Third Edition. Two Vols. Crown Zvo. 12 s.
Footprints of the Son of Man as traced by Saint Mark :
being Eighty Portions for Private Study, Family Reading, and
Instructions in Church.
By Herbert Mortimer Luckock, D.D.,
Canon of Ely ; Examining Chaplain to the Bishop of Ely ;
and Principal of the Theological College.
With an Introduction by the late Bishop of Ely.
Goulburn’s Thoughts on Personal Religion.
New Edition. Small 8z >0. 6s. 6 d.
Thoughts on Personal Religion : being a Treatise on the
Christian Life in its two Chief Elements — Devotion and Practice.
By Edward Meyrick Goulburn, D.D., D.C.L.,
Dean of Norwich.
Also a Cheap Edition. 3J. 6d.
Presentation Edition , elegantly printed on Toned Paper.
Two Vols. Small 8 vo. 10 s. 6d.
Goulburn’s Pursuit of Holiness.
Seventh Edition. Small 85 vo. 5 s.
The Pursuit of Holiness: a Sequel to ‘Thoughts on Personal
Religion, ' intended to carry the Reader somewhat farther onward
in the Spiritual Life.
By Edward Meyrick Goulburn, D.D., D.C.L.,
Dean of Norwich.
Also a Cheap Edition. 3 s. 6 d.
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Goulburn on the Lord’s Supper.
Sixth Edition. Small %vo. 6s.
A Commentary, Expository and Devotional, on the Order of the
Administration of the Lord’s Supper, according to the Use of the
Church of England ; to which is added an Appendix on Fasting
Communion, Non-communicating Attendance, Auricular Confes-
sion, the Doctrine of Sacrifice, and the Eucharistic Sacrifice.
By Edward Meyrick Goulburn, D.D., D.C.L.,
Dean of Norwich.
Also a Cheap Edition, uniform with * Thoughts on Personal Religion,’
and * The Pursuit of Holiness.’ 3$. 6 d.
Goulburn’s Holy Catholic Church.
Second Edition. Crown 8 vo. 6s. 6d.
The Holy Catholic Church : its Divine Ideal, Ministry, and
Institutions. A short Treatise. With a Catechism on each
Chapter, forming a Course of Methodical Instruction on the
subject.
By Edward Meyrick Goulburn, D.D., D.C.L.,
Dean of Norwich.
(Contents.
What the Church is, and when and how it was founded — Duty of the Church
towards those who hold to the Apostles’ Doctrine, in separation from the Apostles’
fellowship — The Unity of the Church and its Disruption — The Survey of Zion’s
towers, bulwarks, and palaces — The Institution of the Ministry, and its relation
to the Church — The Holy Eucharist at its successive Stages — On the Powers of
the Church in Council — The Church presenting, exhibiting, and defending the
Truth — The Church guiding into and illustrating the Truth — On the Prayer
Book as a Commentary on the Bible — Index.
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Goulburn’s Collects of the Day.
Third. Edition. Two Vols. Crown 8 vo. 8s. each. Sold separately.
The Collects of the Day : an Exposition, Critical and Devotional,
of the Collects appointed at the Communion. With Preliminary
Essays on their Structure, Sources, and General Character, and
Appendices containing Expositions of the Discarded Collects of
the First Prayer Book of 1549, and of the Collects of Morning
and Evening Prayer.
By Edward Meyrick Goulburn, D.D., D.C.L.,
Dean of Norwich.
Cantenig.
Volume I. Book I. Introductory. — On the Excellencies of the Collects— On
the Origin of the word Collect — On the Structure of a Collect, as illustrated by
the Collect in the Burial Service — Of the Sources of the Collects : Of the Sacra-
mentary of Leo, of the Sacramentary of Gelasius, of Gregory the Great and his
Sacramentary, of the Use of Sarum, and of S. Osmund its Compiler — On the
Collects of Archbishop Cranmer — Of the Restoration Collects, and of John
Cosin, Prince-Bishop of Durham — Of the Collects, as representing the Genius of
the English Church. Book II. Parti. — The Constant Collect. Part II. — Col-
lects varying with the Ecclesiastical Season — Advent to Whitsunday.
Volume II. Book II. contd. — Trinity Sunday to All Saints’ Day. Book III.
— On the Collects after the Offertory. Appendix A. — Collects in the First
Reformed Prayer Book of 1549 which were suppressed in 1552 — The Collect
for the First Communion on Christmas Day — The Collect for S. Mary Mag-
dalene’s Day (July 22). Appendix B. — Exposition of the Collects of Morning
and Evening Prayer — The Second at Morning Prayer, for Peace — The Third
at Morning Prayer, for Grace — The Second at Evening Prayer, for Peace —
The Third at Evening Prayer, for Aid against all Perils.
Knox Little’s Good Friday Addresses.
New Edition. Small 8 vo. 2s. ; or in Paper Cover, is.
The Three Hours’ Agony of Our Blessed Redeemer : being
Addresses in the form of Meditations delivered in S. Alban’s
Church, Manchester, on Good Friday 1877.
By the Rev. W. J. Knox Little, M.A.,
Canon Residentiary of Worcester, and Vicar of Hoar Cross.
SBaterloo Place, JLontion,
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Luckock’s After Death.
Sixth Edition. Crown 8 vo. 6s.
After Death. An Examination of the Testimony of Primitive
Times respecting the State of the Faithful Dead, and their rela-
tionship to the Living.
By Herbert Mortimer Luckock, D.D.,
Canon of Ely, etc.
Contents.
Part I.— The Test of Catholicity — The Value of the Testimony of the Primi-
tive Fathers — The Intermediate State — Change in the Intermediate State —
Prayers for the Dead : Reasons for Our Lord’s Silence on the Subject — The
Testimony of Holy Scripture — The Testimony of the Catacombs— The Testi-
mony of the Early Fathers — The Testimony of the Primitive Liturgies —
Prayers for the Pardon of Sins of Infirmity, and the Effacement of Sinful
Stains — The Inefficacy of Prayer for those who died in wilful unrepented Sin.
Part II. — Primitive Testimony to the Intercession of the Saints — Primitive
Testimony to the Invocation of the Saints — The Trustworthiness of the Patristic
Evidence for Invocation tested — The Primitive Liturgies and the Roman Cata-
combs— Patristic Opinions on the Extent of the Knowledge possessed by the
Saints — The Testimony of Holy Scripture upon the same Subject — The Beatific
Vision not yet attained by any of the Saints — Conclusions drawn from the fore-
going Testimony.
Supplementary Chapters. — ( a .) Is a fuller Recognition of the Practice of
Praying for the Dead desirable or not? — ( b .) Is it lawful or desirable to practise
Invocation of Saints in any form or not? — Table of Fathers, Councils, etc. —
Passages of Scripture explained or quoted — General Index.
S. Bonaventure’s Life of Christ
Crown Zvo. 7 s. 6d.
The Life of Christ.
By S. Bonaventure.
Translated and Edited by the Rev. W. H. Hutchings,
Rector of Kirkby Misperton, Yorkshire.
The whole volume is full of gems and seek food for their daily meditations, we can
rich veins of thought, and whether as a com- scarcely imagine a more acceptable book.'
panion to the preacher or to those who — Literary Churchman.
flHaterloo place, LottOon.
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Newmans Selection from Sermons.
Third Edition. Crown 8 vo.
Selection, adapted to the Seasons of the Ecclesiastical Year, from
the ‘Parochial and Plain Sermons’ of John Henry Newman,
B.D., sometime Vicar of S. Mary’s, Oxford.
Edited by the Rev. W. J. Copeland, B.D.,
Late Rector of Farnham, Essex.
Contents.
Advent: — Self-denial the Test of Religious Earnestness — Divine Calls — The
Ventures of Faith — Watching. Christmas Day : — Religious Joy. New Year's
Sunday : — The Lapse of Time. Epiphany: — Remembrance of Past Mercies —
Equanimity — The Immortality of the Soul — Christian Manhood — Sincerity and
Hypocrisy — Christian Sympathy. Septuagesima: — Present Blessings. Sexa-
gesima : — Endurance, the Christian’s Portion. QuinquageSima : — Love, the One
Thing Needful. Lent: — The Individuality of the Soul — Life the Season of
Repentance — Bodily Suffering — Tears of Christ at the Grave of Lazarus —
Christ’s Privations a Meditation for Christians — The Cross of Christ the Measure
of the World. Good Friday: — The Crucifixion. Easter Day: — Keeping Fast
and Festival. Easter-Tide : — Witnesses of the Resurrection — A Particular
Providence as Revealed in the Gospel — Christ Manifested in Remembrance—
The Invisible World — Waiting for Christ. Ascension : — Warfare the Condition
of Victory. Sunday after Ascension: — Rising with Christ. Whitsunday: —
The Weapons of Saints. Trinity Sunday: — The Mysteriousness of our Pre-
sent Being. Sundays after Trinity: — Holiness Necessary for Future Blessed-
ness— The Religious Use of Excited Feelings — The Self-wise Inquirer — Scrip-
ture a Record of Human Sorrow — The Danger of Riches — Obedience without
Love as instanced in the Character of Balaam — Moral Consequences of Single
Sins — The Greatness and Littleness of Human Life — Moral Effects of Com-
munion with God — The Thought of God the Stay of the Soul — The Power of
the Will — The Gospel Palaces — Religion a Weariness to the Natural Man — The
World our Enemy — The Praise of Men — Religion Pleasant to the Religious —
Mental Prayer — Curiosity a Temptation to Sin — Miracles no Remedy for Un-
belief—Jeremiah, a Lesson for the Disappointed — The Shepherd of our Souls
— Doing Glory to God in Pursuits of the World.
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Jennings’ Ecclesia Anglicana.
Crown 8 vo. 7 s. 6d.
Ecclesia Anglicana. A History of the Church of Christ in
England, from the Earliest to the Present Times.
By the Rev. Arthur Charles Jennings, M.A.,
fesus College, Cambridge, sometime Tyrwhitl Scholar, Crosse Scholar, Hebrew
University Prizeman, Fry Scholar of S. yohn's College, Carus and
Scholefield Prizeman, and Rector of King’s Stanley,
Bickersteth’s The Lord’s Table.
Second Edition. i6mo. is. ; or Cloth extra , 2 s.
The Lord’s Table ; or, Meditations on the Holy Communion Office
in the Book of Common Prayer.
By E. H. Bickersteth, D.D.,
Bishop of Exeter.
‘We must draw our review to an end, and sincere thanks to Mr. Bickersteth for
without using any more of our own words, this goodly and profitable "Companion to
except one parting expression of cordial the Communion Service.” ’ — Record.
Manuals of Religious Instruction.
New and Revised Editiotis. Small 8vo. 3s. 6d. each. Sold separately.
Manuals of Religious Instruction.
Edited, by John Pilkington Norris, D.D.,
Archdeacon of Bristol and Canon Residentiary of Bristol Cathedral.
I. The Catechism and Prayer Book.
II. The Old Testament.
III. The New Testament.
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Aids to the Inner Life.
Five Vols. 22tno, Cloth limp, 6d. each ; or Cloth extra, is. each.
Sold separately.
These Five Volumes, Cloth extra, may be had in a Box, price 7 s.
Also an Edition with Red Borders, 2 s. each.
Aids to the Inner Life.
Edited by the Rev. W. H. Hutchings, M. A.,
Rector of Kirkby Misperton, Yorkshire.
These books form a series of works provided for the use of members of the
English Church. The process of adaptation is not left to the reader, but has
been undertaken with the view of bringing every expression, as far as possible,
into harmony with the Book of Common Prayer and Anglican Divinity.
OF THE IMITATION OF CHRIST. In Four Books. By Thomas A
Kempis.
THE CHRISTIAN YEAR. Thoughts in Verse for the Sundays and Holy
Days throughout the Year.
INTRODUCTION TO THE DEVOUT LIFE. From the French of S.
F rancis de Sales, Bishop and Prince of Geneva.
THE HIDDEN LIFE OF THE SOUL. From the French of Jean Nicolas
Grou.
THE SPIRITUAL COMBAT. Together with the Supplement and the Path
of Paradise. By Laurence Scupoli.
‘ We heartily wish success to this im-
portant series, and trust it may command an
extensive sale. We are much struck, not
only by the excellent manner in which the
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tions themselves, but also by the way in
which Messrs. Rivington have done their
part. The type and size of the volumes are
precisely what will be found most con-
venient for common use. The price at
which the volumes are produced is marvel-
lously low. It may be hoped that a large
circulation will secure from loss those who
have undertaken this scheme for diffusing
far and wide such valuable means of
advancing and deepening, after so high a
standard, the spiritual life.’ — Literary
Churchman.
Blunt’s Theological Dictionary.
Second Edition. Imperial 8z >o. 42 s. ; or in half -morocco, 52 s. 6d.
Dictionary of Doctrinal and Historical Theology.
By Various Writers.
Edited by the Rev. John Henry Blunt, D.D.,
Editor of the ‘ Annotated Book of Common Prayer etc., etc.
SBatetloo place, JLonflott.
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Norris’s Rudiments of Theology.
Second Edition , revised. Crown 8 vo. 7 s. 6d.
Rudiments of Theology. A First Book for Students.
By John Pilkington Norris, D.D.,
Archdeacon of Bristol, and Canon Residentiary of Bristol Cathedral.
Contents.
Part I. — F undamental Doctrines : — The Doctrine of God’s Existence — The
Doctrine of the Second Person of the Trinity — The Doctrine of the Atonement
— The Doctrine of the Third Person of the Trinity — The Doctrine of The Church
— The Doctrine of the Sacraments.
Part II. — The Soteriology of the Bible: — The Teaching of the Old
Testament — The Teaching of the Four Gospels — The Teaching of S. Paul —
The Teaching of the Epistle to the Hebrews, of S. Peter and S. John — Soterio-
logy of the Bible (concluded).
Appendix — Illustrations of Part I. from the Early Fathers: — On the
Evidence of God’s Existence — On the Divinity of Christ — On the Doctrine of
the Atonement — On the Procession of the Holy Spirit — On The Church — On the
Doctrine of the Eucharist — Greek and Latin Fathers quoted or referred to in
this volume, in their chronological order — Glossarial Index.
Medd’s Bampton Lectures.
8 vo. 1 6s.
The One Mediator. The Operation of the Son of God in Nature
and in Grace. Eight Lectures delivered before the University of
Oxford in the year 1882, on the Foundation of the late Rev. John
Bampton, M.A., Canon of Salisbury.
By Peter Goldsmith Medd, M.A.,
Rector of North Cerney ; Hon. Canon ofS. Alban’s, and Examining
Chaplain to the Bishop; late Rector of Barnes ; Formerly
Fellow and Tutor of University College, Oxford.
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H. L. Sidney Lear’s Christian Biographies.
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Christian Biographies.
By H. L. Sidney Lear.
MADAME LOUISE DE FRANCE, Daughter of Louis xv., known also
as the Mother Terese de S. Augustin.
A DOMINICAN ARTIST: a Sketch of the Life of the Rev. Pere Besson, of
the Order of S. Dominic.
HENRI PERREYVE. By A. Gratry. Translated by special permission.
With Portrait.
S. FRANCIS DE SALES, Bishop and Prince of Geneva.
THE REVIVAL OF PRIESTLY LIFE IN THE SEVENTEENTH
CENTURY IN FRANCE. Charles de Condren— S. Philip Neri and
Cardinal de Berulle — S. Vincent de Paul — Saint Sulpice and Jean Jacques
Olier.
A CHRISTIAN PAINTER OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY:
being the Life of Hippolyte Flandrin.
BOSSUET AND HIS CONTEMPORARIES.
F&NELON, ARCHBISHOP OF CAMBRAI.
H. L. Sidney Lear’s Five Minutes.
Third Edition. i6mo. 3s. 6d.
Five Minutes. Daily Readings of Poetry.
Selected by H. L. Sidney Lear.
Pusey’s Private Prayers.
Second Edition. Royal ymo. 2s. 6d.
Private Prayers.
By the Rev. E. B. Pusey, D.D.
Edited, with a Preface, by H. P. Liddon, D.D., D.C.L.
Chancellor and Canon o/St. Paulis.
Waterloo place, HontJon.
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SPIRITUAL LETTERS TO MEN. By Archbishop F6nelon.
SPIRITUAL LETTERS TO WOMEN. By Archbishop F6nelon.
A SELECTION FROM THE SPIRITUAL LETTERS OF S. FRANCIS
DE SALES, BISHOP AND PRINCE OF GENEVA.
THE SPIRIT OF S. FRANCIS DE SALES, BISHOP AND PRINCE
OF GENEVA.
THE HIDDEN LIFE OF THE SOUL.
THE LIGHT OF THE CONSCIENCE. With an Introduction by the
Rev. T. T. Carter, M.A.
SELF-RENUNCIATION. From the French. With an Introduction by the
Rev. T. T. Carter, M.A.
H. L. Sidney Lears Weariness.
Large Type. Fourth Edition. Small 8 vo. 5$.
Weariness. A Book for the Languid and Lonely.
By H. L. Sidney Lear,
Author of * For Days and Years,' ‘ Christian Biographies,' etc., etc.
Maxims from Pusey.
Third Edition. Crown i6mo. 2 s.
Maxims and Gleanings from the Writings of Edward Bouverie
Pusey, D.D.
Selected and arranged for Daily Use, by C. M; S.,
Compiler of 1 Daily Gleanings of the Saintly Life,' ' Under the Cross,’ etc.
With an Introduction by the Rev. M. F. Sadler,
Prebendary of IVells, and Rector of Honiton.
SHaterloo place, JUttuon.
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Body’s Life of Justification.
Sixth Edition. Crown 8 vo. 45. 6d.
The Life of Justification. A Series of Lectures delivered in
substance at All Saints’, Margaret Street.
By the Rev. George Body, D.D.,
Canon 0/ Durham.
(Ecmtentg.
Justification the Want of Humanity — Christ our Justification — Union with
Christ the Condition of Justification — Conversion and Justification — The Life of
Justification — The Progress and End of Justification.
Keys to Christian Knowledge.
Seven Volumes. Small Zvo. \s. 6d. each. Sold separately.
The is. 6d. Edition may still be had.
Edited by the Rev. John Henry Blunt, D.D.,
Editor of the 'Annotated Bible l 'Annotated Book of Common Prayer ,’ etc., etc.
THE HOLY BIBLE.
THE BOOK OF COMMON PRAYER.
CHURCH HISTORY (Ancient).
CHURCH HISTORY (Modern).
CHRISTIAN DOCTRINE AND PRACTICE (founded
on the Church Catechism).
Edited by John Pilkington Norris, D.D.,
Archdeacon of Bristol, and Canon Residentiary of Bristol Cathedral.
Editor of the ' New Testament with Notes,’ etc.
THE FOUR GOSPELS.
THE ACTS OF THE APOSTLES.
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